My mother sat shelling peanuts.
She was young and strenuous.
Later that afternoon she would
paint her lips ombre, pull her hair
up in a bun, with chopsticks,
go out to her sales job.
Were you sad, you asked, that
she had to go to work?
I gave an economical smile,
embarrassed but there was
impudence implied, as if it was
any of your business what I felt.
It was that dicey.
How our friendship could ever
survive, we’d gone ahead to believe
anyway, like hope with feathers,
or marble that had lined my
mother’s vanity table and
looked so damn pretty.
Day 13. You feeling the burn? Or maybe it’s just the mood, like you’re not really in the mood for this. Like not believing. Not believing. That’s hard. Believing…that’s easy. I don’t know. Believers have it easy, simply because they do not doubt. They have a thing called faith. To have that stamps your soul with conviction. I am speaking of anything you believe in. But maybe it’s not easy too. To believe. Because if it’s too easy, then…what does it mean? Does it have meaning really, beyond what you so readily believe? If you’re not challenged in any way about your belief? There’s one thing though that you can believe in: family. You can interpret “family” too, in a wider sense, to include those who love you, who are not connected to you by blood but by history, circumstance, some commonality, connected in some real way. Robert Brewer wants a family poem, guys.