Momma's hands smell of vanilla. Except on Sundays, when they smell of
honeysuckle stems and garden soil. Branches scrape the bathroom window
It is morning. It is May, because her tulips are blooming.
Momma wears a white camisole and slip. Her feet are bare. She puts
white lotion on her face and leaves the blue container open for me to
play with. Her earrings are silver hoops with blue leaves inside, like
Daddy's in the kitchen. It is loud. Dishes clatter in the sink.
He's making pancakes.
Momma holds a curling iron in her hands and I hear its click as she
opens and closes it on her hair. She turns and does the same to mine.
Momma gets out the hairspray. She tells me to close my eyes and I do.
When I open them, hers are still closed.
The strap of her camisole has fallen, the hand holding the hair spray
still in the air. The mist falls and my face feels sticky. I touch the
bruises on her arm. Some are red, some are blue.
"Daddy didn't mean to," she says.
When we eat breakfast, Daddy puts bacon on my plate and sprinkles
powdered sugar on my pancakes.
Tawnysha Greene is a PhD student at UT-Knoxville. She's had work in Willows Wept Review, 2 River Review and others.
To link to this story directly: http://wigleaf.com/201001sundays.htm
Detail of illustration on main page courtesy
of Joao Grando.
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