~after Edgar Kunz
Two hundred and sixty seven miles southwest, my mother breathes in
ventolin in a state sponsored facility in southern Illinois. A silver cross clasped
in her soft palm. She has a Washington Redskins throw blanket
furled into a draft stopper against the door gap. A hickory-wood steak knife
and a worn burgundy bible tucked under her pillow. She has a hobo purse
concealing Natty Light cans. A Snoopy Easter basket. Hoop earrings.
She has a Cash App account with her dog’s name for the handle and Lipton sun tea
brewed in a jar at the window. She can see SIU’s campus
over a maple tree from the sixth floor. The dogwoods bloom then wilt. She wants
to make amends with her kids. She wants a visitor. She wants
her foot to heal. She wants love. She has a few packs of ramen noodles
and Oscar Mayer hot dogs. A quarter left of Vodka in the freezer. Sometimes
she walks to the edge of the parking lot and lets her dog sniff the grass
while she visits the lilies. On Saturday mornings, she crosses the street
and imagines going to college. Playing Hello, I’m Dolly on vinyl in a dorm room.
Enrolling in early morning piano classes. Meeting boys on a porch at a party.
She tries to see her dearly departed’s face in the crowd. Tries to remember
what she did wrong with her youngest. Tries to make sense of eleven years
without hearing his voice. The cool mist wets her cheeks. The road slickens
beneath her soft shoes. Wind lifts her thin pixie. The dog pulls to go home.
This is what I imagine in place of the memories I’ll never know.
Bryce Berkowitz is the author of the poetry collection Bermuda Ferris Wheel, recipient of the AMC TV Pilot Award at the Austin Film Festival, and Co-Director of the MFA Creative Writing program at Butler University. His writing has appeared in Best New Poets, The Sewanee Review, The Missouri Review, and other publications. Find him at: www.bryceberkowitz.com
