Story poem

I wrote this last night. In fact, it nearly wrote itself. The characters became vivid by the end. I'm not sure if I really like it or what it says, but I think it's a valid story.

...

The Permission of Memory
1-14-06

I
Last May I painted one room blue, the color of
your suitcase. You left quietly, latching
the screen door and taking the morning paper
with you. The grass was damp with dew
and I held my breath
while waiting for the coffee to brew. I never drank
coffee before that morning.
I thought I knew the things
I needed. Caffeine wasn’t among them.

Ten days later I flew to Detroit, the coldest
of places.
I walked the streets without a sweater.
But I wore a hat. I did that much
to protect myself.

II
Cinnamon brought me home to Savannah.
Mama taught me to make apple pie, at last.
I’d been begging her for years. Still, she wouldn’t share
the recipe. “It’s in my head,” she told me. “Safe.”
It’s where she keeps all the important things.

She wanted me to take a pie with me—
“the fruits of your labor,” she insisted—
but it wouldn’t have lasted through the flight.

I ate a slice, warm, with a glass of milk,
and called a cab.
“You know I love you, baby,” she called after me.
Flour still on her apron.
“I know, Mama,” I put my suitcase on the backseat,
slid myself in. “I know.”

© 2006 April K Szuch

Comments

[Allyson]

I randomly stumbled on your blog while looking for stuff on Raining Jane. But in your photo albums--I noticed a picture of what I believe is Main Street Walla Walla...and one of the balloon festival. I miss Walla Walla and it was nice to see it again!

[Katie]

Yay for people looking for Raining Jane. That's what you all should be doing. Now!
Katie