One (Sarah Crossan)

Mom

Time to go,’ Mom says.

She jangles the car keys and

steps into the hall.

Her hair is wet.

Damp spots bloom on the

shoulders of her shirt.

Mom does not dry her hair any more,

nor straighten it.

The only indulgence she allows herself

is a smear of gloss on her lips

sometimes.

She never used to look so plain.

She used to have time to do herself up,

but that was before Dad’s college

made cutbacks and let him go,

before Mom took on extra hours at the bank.

I can’t remember the last time I saw her

flick through a magazine

or sit to watch something on TV.

I can’t remember Mom being still for more

than a moment.

Her life now is

work,

work,

work.

So despite my sweating hands and the sick feeling in my stomach,

and regardless of whether or not

Tippi and I want to go to school,

we will go.

We will go,

and we will

not complain.