I want to hang my wreath—with the big bulbs. But I press his shirt.
Next the waffles are toasted and the eggs fried.
There are more than wreaths to hang. I want to hang the wreath. The lights. But the bus comes before the hardwood is dry.
Homework is on the table and I count on my fingers.
Dinner is prepared-- the table set. I put the forks on the left and fold the napkin under the knife.
Bubble baths are run. Lotion on bums and footies on feet.
And I have a moment before the man comes home. I open the box with the wreath when the garage door grinds. I don’t hang the wreath the one with the lights, I greet.
About the author
Betty S. Allen, an aspiring author and a Georgia State University alumna, explores resiliency, self-discovery, and identity in her work. A member of the Atlanta Writers Club and the Georgia Writers Association, her piece, THE LIGHTNING, appeared in WORDS OF THE LAMB, an online magazine.
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