i remember the laughter that came from the kitchen
when my mother and her sisters spent
every Saturday afternoon cooking.
their blood red aprons,
dainty white fingernails stretched about their tired hands
like lillies after the Winter
as my father sat in silence in his study
scouring over books with his
glossed over eyes
so weary, so weak
for such a strong man.
I always knew he was looking for an answer
but to what, I didn't understand.
I would bring in my coloring books
and spread them around his reading chair
like leaves about a dying tree.
he would cough intermittently,
a dry, hoarse cough
that only weathered men have
and I could smell the taunt of cigarettes
in his skin.
we would retreat at the dinner bell
in single file
to roast, potatoes, corn, and sweet tea,
my mother's curls swept about her breast
and her eyes peering into him
as if she were waiting for an answer.
it wasn't until
I loved a man
that I realized what they were always
looking for.
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