Then Come the Crows

Cindy Wright

Mother rang.

"We will be sortng
Great-granny’s things.
Is there anything you want?"
I think of Bertie
as she watches her soaps
and giggles with a girlfriend
on the phone.
I smell homemade clay
on young fingers
and buttered sweet potatoes
with potted meat for supper.
I can see for just a moment
a scraggle of one thousand plants
thriving in coffee cans and
mayonaise jars.

"Hello?"

I tell my mother yes.
I would like to have the apple crate
that Bertie covered with roses
and set me on to brush my hair.
"Oh dear.  That is going in the yard sale.
The bedroom set you know?"
What about the monkey puppet
that banged his cymbals
to make me quit crying?

Laughter.

"Your California cousins had that on
the plane before she was dead."
I fear my mother’s unusual cynicism.
Toss my mind for thoughts to give her peace.
I hear Bertie laughing
in a crooked hat and gardening gloves.
I would like the brown teapot
With pansies on it.
"But that old thing is cracked."
It is perfect I say.

(Two weeks later)

Mother rings.
"Darling, your aunt would like to have the teapot.
She bought it you know."
Fine I say and head for a hammer.

Cindy Wright