|The Meal by Paul Gauguin (via Magpie Tales)|
Fried pork chops, fried chicken, mac n' cheese and greens in Styrofoam boxes. Sunday afternoon on mother's day, in a double wide behind Social Services.
She bought all the food at a gas station back home. They used to eat there occasionally---always on Sunday & it doesn't matter how we got here, he's just happy to see her.
'I don't like my new mom,' he says, 'She makes me do everything. I have to wash dishes, fix my breakfast, make the bed & clean my room.'
His mom fixes his plate. They eat and when he wants seconds she fixes that too. Clearing the table, she wipes the top with a disposable blue dishcloth, catching crumbs in her hand then tosses them in the trash.
He belches, then asks, 'What you want to do next?'
Out the window, the grass has grown high enough to need maintenance so i take a note.
They sit on the couch, she cuddling him close as the clock ticks off the minutes of this weeks visit.
My own mom waits be at the house with my dad, wife & boys for me to get off work. We are having ribs. No irony lost in that. What can I say, they were on sale.
How we got here, does matter.
written for Magpie Tales.