On Growing Up (smn)

Uncomfortable Clothes

Traveling unnerved her.

Sitting in the back of the cab,

we three on our way to the airport,

my mother smelling like bitter herbs,

her smell catching in my throat

like crumbs.

Back then,

all we knew was how hard it was

to get comfortable inside seat belts,

matching red blazers,

blouses coming loose,

white pleated skirts

winding round wrong,

the zippers

biting at our skin.

Even when she shushed us,

my mother’s glance

never left

the window.

American Summer, 1981

Summer finds me in the lobby,

rain heavy air mixing

with the scent of sweating paint.

I am thirty-six.

I am eleven.

My father, propped up

in the motel bed, drinks coffee

from a Styrofoam cup.

My mother. One eye

on her Swedish crossword.

The other on Good Morning, America.

My sister and I

lie restless in stale sheets.

Boston’s July heat seeps into our jet lag.

We want to play in the pool

and smell the chlorine,

order pancakes and syrup

from giant menus.

We want to wander

the aisles of a drugstore,

the hum of  air conditioning

lulling us toward treasures

plastic and pink,

of Lucky Charms

and Lifesavers.

A Proper Upbringing

We had a proper upbringing

complete with curtsies,

firm handshakes,

and the art of holding a fork.

My sister held it correctly.

I did not.

“Is that the way you would hold your fork

if you were dining with the Queen?”

my mother would ask pointedly.

And sweatpants,

they were unacceptable,

even on overnight school trips

when we were teenagers desperate to belong.

Unacceptable

because WE were representatives of our country

And WE were not like everybody else.