Ma Mere

Somewhere between plumes of stinking, silver smoke, soft -- in memory -- as cashemere, is my mother's blond, pillow-tussled head. She is cute and rosy-cheeked, but with a distant look in her eyes. Her elbow tucked close to her chest, her long fingers elegant against the cigarette, she makes her face look angry and says: "My father always said better to go out young and happy, but I swore I'd never wear elastic waist pants." She scrunches her nose and smiles, as if to crumple and destroy the negativity she imparted. "I can't believe how old I've gotten, Jenny. This is terrible."

With slow, careful movements she finds the ashtray and dabs out her fag. Then she gives me her hands. "1-2-3," and I pull her up from the couch where she's lain all day. We walk to the bathroom, where I guard her like a porcelain object from a marble floor. She was never a delicate woman, but the kind with a naughty penchant for power drills and broken appliances my father can't fix, a yearning for a dance floor, a drink, and laughter. The kind of woman who could disarm an army of men with her big, blue falsely demure eyes.

Somewhere in the midst of our precarious dance back to the sofa, we look up at each other and think at once, "Where have I put myself? Where have I gone? Is this the evolution we heard rumors of? Have we reached this fate so soon?" I nod, as if to reassure her that I will reclaim my life, I will go on living, dancing, laughing and loving when all of this is through.