My mother sprinkled my father’s Sunday shirt
with water from a Coke bottle before ironing it,
chuckling with Wally Phillips on WGN Talk Radio—
prank calls, Groucho Marx sound bytes. I followed her
around the house, an extra shadow
as she swept the floor or dredged raw chicken legs
in flour, turned them in hot oil with metal tongs.
I lay on her bed, watching her draw red lipstick
across her mouth before we’d leave for the grocery store.
Five children. I don’t remember her complaining. How many
loads of laundry? How many dishes in the sink? Every
year, my father would brave cosmetic counters
for Chanel N°5 wrapped in foil paper with an elegant bow.
She’d exclaim, I wonder what this could be, wink
at him—each birthday the same. We all watched
her unwrap the cellophane, spray one wrist, then rub
the other against it. How old was I, seven? Ten?
Old enough to read my father’s rough
cursive letters—to Jeanne with love—the year
it occurred to me. My mother is a person,
a woman with thoughts I’ll never know.
I felt in awe of her then, but also afraid—
a new kind of lonesome her hugs could never
reverse. I watched her head tilt up
as she breathed in the scent, a smile forming
slowly, a smile different from the one she gave me.