Trash Cans:
An Excavation of Family as Midden Heap
(Part 4 - Mother)

Mother’s trash can graced the foot of the table wearing a royal blue silk dress, a string of graduated pearls, and Chanel No. 5. Her lid was warm to the touch. Black-capped chickadees flitted inside in the summer light, their two-note song evidence for her of holiness. Below were white sand beaches with sanderlings skirting the foaming surf, vases of yellow jonquils, bone china teacups, aprons for every occasion, floor-length satin gowns, Girl Scout newsletters, Robert’s Rules of Order, Rudolph Valentino, winning bridge hands, ballerina dreams, and the irrepressible heart of a Flapper. Embedded in a layer rich in buttermilk and graham crackers were the ashes of regret, shards of hope, points of insecurity.

Mother

Curious how you come to mind suddenly
amid the flotsam and jetsam of ordinary days.
You, a wild, unexpected plunge out of nowhere,
a gannet strike swift and sure into waters still
turbid in the aftermath of your leaving.

And me, a creature grown comfortable in the murk,
taken again by surprise, humbled and scared to be
reminded just how much our lives flowed along together
amid the flotsam and jetsam of ordinary days.
Curious how you come to mind suddenly.

Mother, Alice, and Elliott years before I was born.