Mother's Lessons, Doraine Bennett (June 2026)

 

Mother's Lessons

She taught me gin rummy and badminton,
to make Chef Boyardee Pizza with a crust ten-cent thin,
 
to cut a chicken into pieces, fry it in a pan of Crisco,
to keep my thoughts inside my head, to walk on eggshells
 
if I let one slip out my mouth, to hover at the edge
of a room, to remember she was listening, even when
 
I didn’t know she was there. I learned that homework
came before play, that a “B” was a debacle,
 
that a hairbrush was not meant to collect hair. That I could
make my bed before I was out of it, that praise
 
given in public would not change
her silent stare in private. I watched her
 
destroy a lifelong friendship over a pair of black pumps.
Today I sat beside her bed, read to her, held
 
her leathery hand in mine, kissed her cold cheek,
because I know what it means to need small mercies.
 
She taught me that.