A Sunday afternoon breeze sweeps the fallen; waves open a screen door; green and blue bins fill the street; a wafer cone with an untouched scoop of vanilla cries; my mother counting loose gravel grasps her hair and takes one step back. A reel lawn mower ratchets next door; muffles our silence. A group of children with party blowers cut the thread between us. Her shoulder pulls away. I reach out. She leans back on the neighbors rusted ‘94 Chevy; wipes dripping sugar from her hand. Pupils glisten at me.
I’m seven again and I’ve spilled juice on my blue sunflower dress;
I’ve ripped my tights climbing a tree. She tells me ladies don’t
climb; ladies don’t make messes; grabs a wooden ruler. Hours
later I can still feel the melted marks on my skin. I hug her. She
caresses my back. We share a bowl of ice cream.
She stands. Shakes her head. Turns away.
Her melted cone in a green bin.
Locked door