Brenda Mantz
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Brenda Mantz
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The longing to tell one’s story and the process of telling is symbolically a gesture of longing to recover the past in such a way that one experiences both a sense of reunion and a sense of release. Bell Hooks
Homecoming
I
could be in Belhaven
singing hymns, gathering brown eggs and
cooking collard greens.
I
could be spoiling grandbabies
while their mama works nights at
Toppin’s
making pure pork country sausage.
I
could be Page Sparrow
with an apron girded belly and pear
preserves in the pantry
I don’t want to go to sleep yet.
I
could be Belhaven
Wisteria blocks the view from the front room
window
White rose on a blue suit for Mother’s Day
I
could be teaching Vacation Bible School at Sidney Freewill Baptist
Church
An army of plaster of paris Jesus’s stand side by
side on a shelf
ready to be attacked with tempera and
determination
I
could be Nelma Linton
limping through life in a cloud of Vicks
Vapor Rub
and regret
I don’t want to go to sleep yet.
I
could be in Belhaven
riding past row after row after row of
corn,
tobacco, soybeans, pine trees and barefooted children
I
could be rushing through supper to get to Wednesday night prayer
meeting
where I’ll talk to God and Blanche Burgess
I
could be Katie McClese Foreman. A Methodist.
Going to bed early
with a sick headache
leaving Roswell and the children to tiptoe
around her immaculate house.
I don’t want to go to sleep yet.
I
want to go down to the old house one more time.
Mama’s
standing in the kitchen
Daddy’s singing about that old gang
of his.
I
want milk and honey.
I want faith and grace.
I
want to wrap myself in mystery and an eight pointed star quilt
and
rest beneath a moonless sky.
Left Behind
He left his books behind. They are piled there next to the bed he shared with Mama.
His pillow is still crumpled up. Mama has kept to her side of the bed.
He left his shoe shining kit. Guess he won’t need that out there on the Outer Banks.
He left his white shirts and his work pants and he left me.
He took his cigarettes and his lighter and he walked right out that front door and he didn’t look back and he didn’t say goodbye and he didn’t tell me why he was going or where he was going but I don’t think he is coming back.
The house is quiet now. Mama doesn’t smile anymore. I feel like crying but I don’t want to make her mad.
I am just like my daddy. She told me so. I am lazy and good for nothing and I don’t pull my own weight.
One day I will leave too, but I don’t know that yet. When that day comes I will leave behind the white clock radio I got for graduation and the poster of King Kong. I will leave my Phi Mu pin and the notes from Philosophy 201 and International Relations. I will just walk out the front door and I won’t tell anyone where I am going or why I am going or when I am coming back. But in my going away I will finally understand why my daddy left me behind.
Gumballs
Gum Balls The Fruit of the Sweet gum Tree. Also known as “space bug", "monkey ball", "bommyknocker," and "sticker ball". It is a hard, dry, compound fruit 2.5-4 cm in diameter and composed of numerous (20-50) capsules. Each capsule has a pair of terminal spikes, and contains one to two small seeds.
I nap on a brown army blanket under the sweet gum tree and I am content.
I breathe in the smoke from Daddy’s Chesterfield cigarette and his Old Spice Cologne
I ignore the gum balls under the blanket.
I count the flowers in the linoleum on the kitchen floor.
I memorize my phone number and the pictures in my Little Golden Library Book.
I like the flowers best – the yellow ones that look like butter.
The flowers on the linoleum are red.
The television is always on as
The World Turns
If I open the cupboard under the sink will I still find your whiskey bottle there?
Does your ironing board still crowd the dining room where no one eats together?
Do you still have the ashtray I brought you from Luray Caverns?
Do you still catch your toe under our worn carpet and cuss at the dog?
Have you shot him yet?
Do you still write me every day in your mind?
Can I come home again?
Where rabbits hutch in Aunt Irma’s backyard.
Where Bill Mackey’s motor scooter dives down a hill that seemed steeper then.
Where you are still young and you tie a perfect bow in my sash and send me off starched and ironed to conquer the first grade.
Where the houses on both sides are filled with people who love me.
Where you stand on the front porch and holler “It’s Howdy Doody Time” and I run home to you.