smile, rosemary

seventeen

him

i think the last time

i saw my mother smile

was a year ago. when she

woke up alone in her bed,

with a note beside her where

her husband used to be.

she read the note,

and when my youngest

sister, Mikayla, asked her if

she was okay, my mother laughed.

it was a low, almost hysterical laugh.

my bones rattled and i thought i saw

my mother's soul die out into smoke.

ever since, she always gives us

a simple, thin lipped weak smile,

that she believes no one can see through.

her lips are chapped and the grey

spreads to her hair like sugar sprinkles

on a cake. her clothes hang to her body

the same way they do on a clothesline, in the sun.

my sisters and i always offered to help,

to start working, but mom smacked our heads

and said: "you're my babies, i'm your momma.

i protect you until the day i die."

she cut what's left of her soul

out of her chest and serves it to four

kids on plastic plates that we wash and

re-use. she twisted all the love into clear,

dollar store mugs and serves it to us.

but she forgets herself.

so, when my heart dropped

on my stomach, using it as a cushion,

because my mother,

my beautiful, strong mother,

fainted during her job as a waitress

and broke a hip in the process,

i realized that i needed to help.

"i don't understand," says the woman

in front of me, lips twisting into a frown,

"you want to quit the class?"

"yeah. i mean, this was amazing.

but i can't. family stuff, ma'am.

thank you for everything."

i put the camera stored

with blonde locks

and purple smiles on the table,

"thank you for the camera."

see, the teacher, she lent me

the little moment grasper when

she knew i couldn't afford one.

it was a hand-me-down,

somewhat like luck. it gets

passed around and fleets our hands,

but sometimes, when we're smart enough,

we hold onto it for a little bit.

for now, i need to find

a four-leaved clover.