most nights he watched his mother

unravel like she was never really put together.

growing up, he thought all women

smelled like bacon grease and coffee grounds and sani water…

he learned how to read her days based on the height of her shoulders and

the way she smiled at him when she walked in apartment.

he knew better than to ask for too many stories on nights she kept her hands pushing into the small of her back – trying hard to knead out a late lunch rush. his favorite were the nights she came home whistling that Sinatra song she loved so much

he knew on those nights, he’d have a mother who eats ice cream for dinner and forgets about brushing teeth and checking his homework

a mother who let him fall asleep in her bed while she told him of the time she drove to New Mexico with her best friend – and he’d help her with the details because sometimes she would start to fade before she got to the best part


©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved


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