MOM

A pink cupcake and my fist coming down in it, spattering through 8mm filmstrip sprockets. Who made me? A thumbed thorny rose in front of Los Angeleno stucco. The kids speak Spanish. This is my home. I am becoming self-conscious. Tall blonde coils and a polyester jumpsuit, belt astride the hip. She is angry at me because I pissed in the little garbage can. She bakes bread and makes strawberry jam with her hands, sews my clothes and tolerates me when I plant morning glory in the garden, not realizing it is a weed that could choke off the lemon and lime trees. She does not have a birth certificate. She was born in Charlesroi, Belgium, now a safe haven for terrorists. She has never read anything I’ve written other than that coy old exposé of Jerry Springer. She is a cripple from the time her car went off the highway overpass. She has no education. She has been to Tierra del Fuego and Morocco and Fresno, California where ripe figs like women's thighs split on the sidewalk when the earthquake rolls it. She is my Mom.

Lillian Marie was named after the song Lili Marlene, the old World War II song about a prostitute. This is her memoir written by me. Maybe one day she will read it. Maybe not.

To be continued.