Mother's Day

I want to go home for Mother's day. I must go home and look into my mama's face again and see her smile.  I want to sit on the front porch and listen to her memories flow like a song with the voice of the porch swing singing along.

We will drink coffee and she will smoke her cigarettes and I will watch the smoke curl away just like I did when I was a little girl, Mama sitting at the sewing machine making me a new feed sack dress while I lay across the bed, thinking how pretty I was going to look.

I will miss the silver popular tree at the corner of the porch, next to the rock wall, the tree where my brother carved his initials so long ago. When the dress was finished my sister Betty posed me in front of that tree and made my picture.

The tree blew down this past winter. I felt sad when Mama told me but now the morning sun will light up my old bedroom.

We will sit on the porch and watch the birds bathe in the birdbath and hear the trains go by on the tracks across the valley. The air will be filled with the smell of honeysuckle and if we sit late enough, we will hear the whippoorwills. If the lightning bugs are out I will jump off the porch and catch some before they fly too high. I will pinch their light off just at the right moment and put one on mine and Mama's finger for a glowing ring just like I did when I was little.

Yes, I must go home for Mother's Day and wear a red rose to Sunday School. I must go home and be a daughter, Mama's little girl, again.