as the lazy days
of summer app
roach, I am rem
iniscing. The ma
triarch falls off the
rickety back porch
with a butcher knife
in one hand and a
bucket in the other.
the brown pail, emp
ty, for she was out
to pick some okra
for supper, tumbles
like jack or jill off to
the matriarch’s left
as she falls to the
ground. the knife’s
grip remains firmly
gripped within the
clench of her right
hand. nothing gets
sliced or broken,
save a pot of okra
to boil. there is,
however, pain:
in the neck,
mostly, but
also in the
right fore
arm (which
she can bare
ly even feel,
thanks to a
botched surg
ery to reset a
cannula). “the
kidney stones
were last week,”
she says of what
i’ve come to see
(not feel) as the
very definition of
pain. i have called
her in the intensive
care unit some forty
years (and many pots
and skillets filled with
boiled or fried okra)
later, to tell her that
we can go through
the photographs
that i sent her
on a later date,
that my latest
job is over (“i
came down
with covid
on my very
last day.”)
and to please
feel better soon.
