Mom hoed the dead soil
outside her Section 8 housing,
tossing in coffee grounds,
potato peels,
and the crumbs
of a Little Debbie snack cake,
butting her cigarettes in weeds,
saying anything would help
bring the dirt back to life.
She was in remission,
shrunk and concave
from lymphoma and chemo,
her hair growing back
in light brown tufts,
her eyebrows sprouting
in dark brittle stubs.
I brought Mom impatiens,
a flat of four-inch
red, white and pink,
potbound and petaled
on leafy supple stems.
I got compost, too,
saying I’d shovel
and blend it in,
making a rich bed
for the flowers.
“No,” she said.
“I don’t need your help.”
She wet her cracked lips
and turned away.
“You didn’t get mulch anyway,” she said.
“That compost will stink.
And attract flies.”
Standing at the kitchen window,
Mom looked beyond
the dumpster
to a row of townhomes
across the pot-holed lot.
A woman was there,
squeezed into cutoffs
and a bathing suit top,
whipping a hose,
spraying water
over scorched grass.
Three boys were nearby,
kicking and pushing,
shirtless and barefoot,
simmering with sunburn.
“That’s Shelley,” she said.
“You remember Shelley.
She always has time
for me.”
I said I did,
thinking of a girl
from my high school days,
her bell bottoms scraping,
her hair mussed
and make-up smeared,
always in the parking lot
smoking and drinking,
sometimes puking
in the bathroom
during lunch.
“OK,” I said.
“Get Shelley then.”
I sat down
in a crooked red chair,
my skin sticking to
the faux leather.
The TV was on,
a re-run of
“Little House on the Prairie”
just starting.
The frame pulled in tight
to Michael Landon,
snapping the reins
to a horse-drawn
covered wagon,
his curls rippling
from a wide-brimmed hat.
His bonneted wife sat beside him,
smiling as three girls in calico
bounded down a daisied hill.
“Oh just look at him,” she said.
Mom settled on the couch.
She pulled a bottle of Jim Beam
from between the cushions.
“Such a shame,” she said.
“He’s got the cancer.
To think he’ll lose
all that yummy hair.”
