Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Saturday hangs long. I pin the wash on the line and sweep the kitchen five times, and Mom teases me. She's enjoying this.

"You know, if you had your license, you could have picked him up?"

That's a long drive. For anyone.

"He wanted to get his own car. He's a journalist."


She's definitely feeling better.

The wind's blowing in. The sheets and blouses snap on the line. Questions fly through me like flocks of geese. I am obvious.

"Maybe you should bake a cake."


"Just trying to give you something to so."

That was her way to cope. My father would leave, and my mother would bake. A parade of pies, with fruit she'd canned in summer, and cakes--Black Forest, German Chocolate, Lady Charlotte, Angel Food, Devil's Food. We ate our way through winter.

I am not in the mood for butter and flour just now.

Gravel curves up the drive from the road. At about five o'clock I hear tires.

Sevario is getting out of the car and I kind of hurry toward him and then I slow down, not sure how to look, how to act, what to say.

"Welcome to South Bend." We hug, a distant-cousin sort of hug. My mother's on the front porch.

Sevario holds me at arm's length, looking at me.

"I almost can't believe this. I'm here."

I almost can't believe it either.

"Come meet my mom."

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