| Mother's Day by Nadine Sellers |
it might as well be mule's day for all I care! Won't make no difference to either of us now will it boy? Yeah, I'm talking to myself ain't I? That's what the years will do to you if you let them. Junior is pretty near 30 now and I just sit here thinking to myself all day unless the preacher comes over for a spell or the county decides to check us out. My husband George ain't no good to talk to, he just gets mad and breaks things or just plain leaves. I sure think I deserve a nice gift, but I can't look into the boy's eyes or in my daughter's face either, if and when she takes a mind to visit. This morning I took junior's dark glasses off and whispered, He grunts and lets his arm run down my hip, he's too busy enjoying his own stink like he always does afore breakfast. It turns my stomach evertime I pull him out of his quilts, but I got to do it, the home nurse would throw a fit if I let him to his ways all day. Doctor says his rash will clear up if I use clean washcloths but I run out by noon ever day. I never look at him anymore, I don't look at his sister Melba-Jean either; can't remember the last time I really saw my husband; it's hard to lift up my head anymore. Wish I could read good, I'd get books at the thrift store like my sister, she knows all kinds of things from books. My sister don't have no children, she don't know how it is. She got herself a good man, he goes to work to the chicken plant in Nyeville ever day and he gets paid handsome for it too. Eddie runs the poison control end of things, the stuff that kills critters on the chickens, he gets them little guys from down south that cain't speak no English to spray the birds and the Quonset huts, he says they do any kind of work and don't look at their pay so close as these lazy no good bums round these parts. I tried to get Melba Jean to work there but she done cut up her middle finger first day out, they wouldn't even pay for the doctor cause she ain't signed no form to it, she can't read too good so, guess she put her name to the wrong things. The county let her go to the clinic and I spose they paid up or else she just let it go. What can they do to her? She's just a poor girl, don't got no diploma or nothin', a body ain't got a chance in the woods less they go to the factories or the big Wal Mart upstate. Sure wish my sister would take me there, that skinny husband of hers likes to show her off and he gets her clothes and they go buy stuff they don't need an fancy foods I can't spell, they don't get back till way into the night so I cain't find nobody to keep Junior that long. In this sorry life of mine I got a cross to bear, sometimes I leave my baby to home jest awhile to pick some beans or somethin', no matter how I hurry, he find trouble sure as can be. Last time I 'member, he done put a button up his nose and set it to bleeding like a stuck pig, took me clear to supper to clean that mess up, put the fright of Jesus in me too, he ain't right in the head but it ain't his fault. Paw says it's my fault I didn't carry him proper, I's too old when he showed up in me, the good Lord done gave me a gift and he ain't takin' it back, he done took my little girl and I ain't been right with him since, I go to the church house, I sing and I do my prayers and all, but I never look at the cross no more, just close my eyes and do my business and get on home afore George gets to holler 'bout his breakfast or the stink in the front room. This morning the preacher done called all the mothers up to pulpit, I had to stand 'tween Luna-Mae and Carrie-Sue, it 'bout kilt me to hide the spot on my old dress, right front of 'em people, I squirmed sideways so's they could take the picture with the little bunch of pretty flowers they gave us. I cried all the walk home. Tain't the pastor that shamed me, t'is the wife and all her sweet perfeck children all dressed up, up front like a moving picture. And she was so pretty all done up in pink, fresh pink, not like that church dress I done wore out on the bench evertime I make it to service for so many years I can't remember none. Got home to the old man yellin' his dumb head off, some' about burned his finger on bacon drippings and all the grease off on the floor, took off after me with the pan, near missed me too, raised his pressure and tumbled over the lazy chair, kicked the spit can and swallowed a hole hunk of chew 'backey, he ain't feelin' too good now. I throwed the pretty flowers past the graveyard for my sweet daughter; if I brung 'em home there' d be trouble to pay, so good day for all them other mothers, I know it ain't always easy for them neither. |
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