Mother #1 - A

June 2026

For Anita - Who never had a fighting chance

I am 40-some-odd years old.

Standing at the kitchen counter getting ready to snort a line at 6:07.

The white powder is humid, lumpy.

I could microwave it.

Rising up my neck is a familiar sensation - I don’t need to look down I know what this is.

Knees turned inward feet touching big toes kissing.

Pigeon toed.

I remember my first mother telling me

(on the rare occasions she spoke to me)

that when I was a baby the doctor told her to exercise my legs and feet outward.

I wonder if she ever bothered.

I remember, she would yell my name.

I remember the dread of knowing all of the contempt waiting to greet us at the frame of a doorway that is not a doorway but a passage between hiding and hating.

Fearing.

Facing her. Her and her tiny bible, next to her orange juice, next to her bowl of USDA issued bran wheat cereal and raisins, in her same pink blouse she wore everyday for a decade.

A patchwork of safety pens for the fabric that finally relented.

 —— YOU DID NOT CLOSE THE A. —— YOU WILL CLOSE THE DOOR QUIETLY FIVE TIMES. —— YOU DID NOT PUT THE PENCIL AWAY. —— YOU WILL LOWER YOUR VOICE.

She bothered the only way she knew how.