She smoked
She smoked,
my mother did, a LOT!
I never liked it.
To me she looked like
of those “molls” in
detective magazines,
later on television,
cigarette dangling
from the corner
of her mouth
acrid smoke
curling up (she didn’t inhale)
choking the air
as she played cards
or worked
at her desk.
To be sure,
there were “issues”
between husband and wife.
Mid-Great Depression
Dad out of work
or out of town for work
alone with
kids to manage
clothe and feed
with what?
So she smoked.
Small family Jewish
grocer let bills run up.
Smoking a comfort?
Housedresses, nothing new,
shoes needed for kids.
Teeth bad, pull them.
Children need dental care.
Sharp tongue cutting
no whining
“Just get on with it”.
Hurt, not understanding
we sulked. She smoked
Smoking and smoking
taking in relatives
with lost jobs, lost homes,
sick or in need, managing somehow
depressed (never admit it)
feeling put down,
frustrated, underrated
and underappreciated
never accomplished anything
worthwhile with her
college degree.
But, in her own way,
a saint in a housedress
Smoking away the grief.
she is wearing a bedraggled housedress
blue with enormously large red and yellow mums
it is faded now, but really soft, threadbare in spots
we surprise her with a new one for her eightieth birthday
she overly thanks us with this pink delight
but we never see her wear it; she wears the old one
when her estate is up for sale there are sixteen boxes
with brand new housedresses in them
none worn
people gave her new ones every year for Christmas
and for her birthday but she liked the old one.
They buried her in it.
While lounging in my duster* watching news,
I have my morning coffee. When I'm through,
I wash my cup and saucer and admire
their elegance and pleasing shade of blue.
Like other lovely things I own--handbags,
Americana wreaths, and jewelry--
my dusters, cups, and saucers all came from
the popular Blue Daisy Company.
************************
Blue daisy plants don't flourish where I live;
and, even if they did, they wouldn't thrive
for me. I'm death to flowers! So I have
the artificial ones. They look alive!
Most of my rooms are graced with vases of
these blue silk beauties that appeal to my
calm, meditative side or to my sense
of whimsy. Then they make me smile and sigh.
*housedress
written June 18, 2017, and entered in Mystic Rose's Blue Daisy Contest
Aunt Ruth came to the door in her housedress and hairnet.
Her dark hair cropped short allowing only the smallest curl to float free.
It was right in the middle of her forehead. A spit curl I think they called it.
We would visit her weekly just so see how she was doing. Ruth was said to have bad nerves, a term used then to mean all kinds of things from anxiety to alcoholism.
I never really knew what it meant.
I think I do now.
My mother wore a duster
(Or a housedress) ‘round the house,
Which was once the garb of women
(Even lacking kids or spouse).
It was likely made of cotton
In a shift-style meant for ease,
Much more comfortable for housework
Than a pair of dungarees.
I’m not sure if stores still sell them
But the reasoning was right,
For when I’m at home I’m wearing
Clothes the opposite of tight.
They may be quite old and baggy
But they’re just the togs for me
Since the most important rule of home
Is comfort is the key.
Amid the sexy lingerie
The bride-to-be received,
There was a garment out of place,
Or so some folks believed.
It was a housedress from the past,
A little drab and faded,
In which the grandma of the bride
Once through her house paraded.
That grandma is no longer here,
But spoke up through that dress.
Her daughter and her grandchild
Felt her kvelling,** I would guess.
And though that shapeless schmatte*
Wasn’t bridal-like to wear,
It let us know that Grandma Ida
Had a presence there.
I love when past and present
Are connected with a link;
That housedress did its job and Ida
Would be tickled pink.
*an old piece of clothing or material
**bursting with joy and bragging about it
continued from Pt1
My knocks were answered by an old woman in a housedress.
As I begin to explain, I felt the chill of the rain. I expected this woman to tell me I was
insane. But I noticed pain in her eyes, then the tears. I wanted to disappear. Her words
would forever change my outlook on the things of this world.
She said "You're not the first, nor will you be the last to bring home my baby girl!"
*4th Place win in "Awesome Paranomal Experience" Contest
* Written for John Freemans Contest.
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