Latham this piece means a lot to me. You brought back so many memories of mom that I keep in my heart. Too many to tell. I want to share a memory in the form of a poem I wrote years ago.
ONIONS MAKE ME CRY
Mom used to click her teeth at the kids when they were small. Sitting in her lap playing a game of pattycake, each of them making funny faces to the other. Suddenly, she'd push her bottom denture out and laugh. I got mad, It scared them. How would you feel if ugly teeth dropped out of a wrinkled old face? "the better to eat you with my dear."
I never understood her.
She swore a piece of onion between slices of bread cured a stomachache. I never fell for that one.
It didn't matter if I took her advice to heart, she'd give it anyways. Then, she'd move on to the next kid, dishing it out like eggs on a full plate.
I ignored most of what she told me. I was too busy doing things my way. There were too many memories of a scarred childhood to give her credence now "you lost your chance years ago, you shoulda cared then".
It's sobering what you learn when you grow up. How come little girls don't grow up till their mama's are gone?
I ate an onion sandwich the last time my stomach hurt. Just to see...
Beautiful, Latham! I love your sensory descriptions, especially those tied to memory, like the sticky-sweet mint of menthol cigarettes. Powerful! And this, with the force of revelation, noticing that there are “other people out in the cold with me.” I look forward to what’s next.
Latham this piece means a lot to me. You brought back so many memories of mom that I keep in my heart. Too many to tell. I want to share a memory in the form of a poem I wrote years ago.
ONIONS MAKE ME CRY
Mom used to click her teeth at the kids when they were small. Sitting in her lap playing a game of pattycake, each of them making funny faces to the other. Suddenly, she'd push her bottom denture out and laugh. I got mad, It scared them. How would you feel if ugly teeth dropped out of a wrinkled old face? "the better to eat you with my dear."
I never understood her.
She swore a piece of onion between slices of bread cured a stomachache. I never fell for that one.
It didn't matter if I took her advice to heart, she'd give it anyways. Then, she'd move on to the next kid, dishing it out like eggs on a full plate.
I ignored most of what she told me. I was too busy doing things my way. There were too many memories of a scarred childhood to give her credence now "you lost your chance years ago, you shoulda cared then".
It's sobering what you learn when you grow up. How come little girls don't grow up till their mama's are gone?
I ate an onion sandwich the last time my stomach hurt. Just to see...
It felt better.
Smell is one of those powerful triggers for memory. Good reminder that only writing can give us smell and touch -- movies and music can't do that.
Gah! I missed this one! Yeah I’m on the edge of my seat too! So vivid, I feel like I’m out there in the cold with you...
And the decision you made was to interrupt the impending bank robbery by the woman in the pink hat and mask? Do tell!!!!!
Beautiful, Latham! I love your sensory descriptions, especially those tied to memory, like the sticky-sweet mint of menthol cigarettes. Powerful! And this, with the force of revelation, noticing that there are “other people out in the cold with me.” I look forward to what’s next.