My mother called<\/p>\n
the antique mahogany dresser<\/p>\n
that held her daughters\u2019 underwear<\/p>\n
in the hallway that ran<\/p>\n
from her room to ours<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
a lowboy. On top of him,<\/p>\n
she set an antique clock<\/p>\n
that chimed every hour,<\/p>\n
counting our lives for us.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
At noon, I drank<\/p>\n
in twelve bells, counting<\/p>\n
ten on my fingers<\/p>\n
and tapping my heart twice<\/p>\n
with my pointer finger.<\/p>\n
I was a child in love<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
with ritual but<\/p>\n
I never questioned<\/p>\n
my mother\u2019s\u2014to house<\/p>\n
her three daughters\u2019<\/p>\n
multi-colored snake pit<\/p>\n
of lace and satin and cotton<\/p>\n
in the same wooden box,<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
stored where other mothers<\/p>\n
treasured silver knives,<\/p>\n
miniature spoons, and linen<\/p>\n
they knew how to fold<\/p>\n
into birds that posed on bone<\/p>\n
china plates as men took<\/p>\n
their seats at fancy tables.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Ours was a blurry childhood.<\/p>\n
Our mother did not believe<\/p>\n
in separating the strands of anything\u2014<\/p>\n
she threw every kind of utensil<\/p>\n
into one empty, unlined<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
kitchen drawer. Her necklaces<\/p>\n
struggled in a level of tangle<\/p>\n
she\u2019d never live to undo. We got lost<\/p>\n
in the spice cabinet, could never<\/p>\n
find the flavors we craved most<\/p>\n
and our water would boil over, stain<\/p>\n
the black sheen of the stovetop<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
as our books leaned against each other<\/p>\n
in a confusion of genre. Surely<\/p>\n
our illustrated Cinderella yearned to pry open<\/p>\n
the pages of my mother\u2019s art books<\/p>\n
where women spread their legs, refused<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
to don lingerie. My mother hurled<\/p>\n
her apprentices\u2019 unmentionables<\/p>\n
into a place that reeked of a forest<\/p>\n
before it’s been selected and sliced<\/p>\n
by the town\u2019s strongest men.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
We idolized her, but questioned<\/p>\n
what life was like at other houses<\/p>\n
where dinner parties twinkled<\/p>\n
as we watched them, barefoot<\/p>\n
from the street with our hair matted<\/p>\n
into braids from the previous week.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The plates and saucers soared<\/p>\n
to each guest like clockwork<\/p>\n
as they gripped their forks,<\/p>\n
licked their lips and leaned back.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Perhaps every woman in our house<\/p>\n
was jealous of each white,<\/p>\n
monogrammed linen cloth,<\/p>\n
how it rested gently<\/p>\n
in the warm lap of a man,<\/p>\n
how it got to be lifted<\/p>\n
by experienced hands<\/p>\n
toward his hungry mouth.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
It never occurred to me that anyone would know me like I know myself.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The first time a boy put his tongue between my thighs<\/p>\n
was on a wooden picnic table. It was Sunday. Broad daylight. I was<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
splinterless on his father\u2019s boat as that boy named after metal,<\/p>\n
named after taking without someone\u2019s knowledge,<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
ferried me gorgeously out to an unnamed island he knew would be deserted.<\/p>\n
I plunged the steel anchor into the crest of the shore and our bodies broke<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
away from the boat, leaping into the dunes where we lapped salt water<\/p>\n
off each other until we were dry again. We hid behind palm fronds like<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
the ones laid before Jesus as he rode to his crucifixion. It was exhilarating<\/p>\n
to be laid gently on a wooden altar. I turned my head and studied<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
a circle of gray stones where ash danced, flitted away from where<\/p>\n
a fire once roared. Sizzled. I wanted to burn, so I covered my eyes<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
with my hands to shield the light. I don\u2019t remember either of us praying.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
My mother called . . .<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":5137,"template":"","categories":[9,49,119],"tags":[6,1437,1438,1439],"class_list":["post-5073","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-literary-features","category-poetry","tag-aquifer-the-florida-review-online","tag-i-told-my-mother-i-was-attending-church-with-anthony-steele","tag-lauren-berry","tag-lowboy"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n