it may be poetry/ it may be prose/ it is her/ it is me

Summer blew in soft and swift, never a moment too soon under school’s stifling four walls. Funny how now we notice a prairie wind blows; back then, it was never strong enough to lift sapling arms or spindly limbs, turning wildly round.
She laughed at my Wilder nature; that Easter I begged to be Nellie; she rolled each strand; come morning service, a halo of ringlets topped with a white satin bow had mother in embarrassed tears.
We had been quite a pair; heading to the five and dime, seeking
99 cent bins of orange/pink poly yarn. Nervousness got me when we’d leave; having to choose, a doll or a stuffed thing. Money seemed a luxury not for toys; she’d tell her later, “she got all red, not wanting it”. They whispered; questioning if a child’s mind should worry quite so much. Inheritance came in handfuls; her nervous laughter; fear in what came next.
So quiet as a little girl, disappearing for hours behind worn slipcovered chairs, playing dolls with makeshift yearbook walls; something about that back-cover colored paper seemed so lovely. She’d call out, “Angie, baby?” thinking I’d slipped away; quietly, I’d re-appear, knowing she startled easily. We’d go hang laundry with unforgiving wooden pins; and roll pie crusts, never caring if mine tore, or was thin.
Lost memories; yet she nods when I remind her about Fridays, a big plastic bowl of cast iron popped corn; or that time I thought death had come when the pink basin turned magenta. No one thought to warn me pickled beets were the enemy.
There was a quiet loveliness when we posed today. I showed her us, Nona just sighed; “I look old”. When I left, there was a dandelion bloom that needed to be pulled; I wonder if she’d still smile.

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Posted by angela on 2012/04/06

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/04/06/it-may-be-poetry-it-may-be-prose-it-is-her-it-is-me/