Brunch with Mother
My mother collects rocks.
She has them by the bucket
Outside her cabin, by her collection
Of empty glass magnums.
She places them carefully side by side,
In a pattern, over the course of months,
So she won’t have to mow
Her tiny patch of lawn.
She reminds me of this
As we go.
October trees blur into flaming evergreens;
My mother stares out the car window.
We get out without speaking;
The trembling embers
Of each leaf
Burn slow in the breeze.
We eat brunch under the blazing Chestnut,
Slicing bits of cappicola and
Wedges of Brie,
And after, we pull
the thermal carafe and cups
From the bag
And pour coffee.
We sip as fiery birch leaves flit past,
Watch the conflagration
of a hillside beech. She says
She hates fall because
It reminds her of
The coming cold. She says
Do not ever depend
On a man. She says do not live
To be old.
When she gets drunk and angry she reminds me
That I am not welcome at her funeral.
It’s as if she believes that’s the only party
That might ever be thrown for her,
And as if it’s the only thing over which
She might even indirectly
Have some control.
~
Tamara Burross is a student of English Literature.