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Home Tastes like Gravy
"I ain't got no light in my life,
like it's goin' on dusk all day and the blinds won't let the sinkin' sun in for
even a peek," she said to her mom on the phone. A shadow crept up the wall
like lichen on an elm. Pipes in her motel room moaned, pinging to some Hank
Williams' tune about loss and drink.
"Well, honey girl, whatca' gonna do 'bout that? Sit and take his shit, or
get off the pot and hop a bus back home?"
"I know mom. He's miserable some of the time, spittin' out hurtful words
like broken teeth, but then he'll sweeten up, tell me my nose is pert or he
likes the breakfast I made him. And then, well, I guess I forget the bad words
and tell myself how, sure, even in good weeks it rains a day or two," as
she twirled the tips of her henna-dyed hair into rainbows.
"Huh, all I got to say. He ever get a job yet?" asking with about as
much hope as a bird searching worms in a hailstorm.
"Now give him some time, Mom. I hear that doubtin' tone in your voice.
He's tryin'. And it’s only been a couple or three weeks, so far. He was out last week, checkin' the lube
shops, bait and tackle stores, even the ice houses. He says times are tough.
He's up against guys with high school degrees."
"You say last week he looked. And today?"
"He needed a break, so he's playin' some pool, maybe even bring in a buck
or two, if he's lucky."
"When was he last lucky, girl? Same day catfish flew into boats?" And
she paused to find the right words. "Listen here, Suze. I been waitin' on
you to make a right decision. Even three cherries comes up ever so often on
slots. I seen it. Now's as good a time as any for you. Tell you what. Hop on
that bus and get yourself back here. Tell me when and where and I'll meet you.
I'll fix you up your favorite—biscuits, meat-drip gravy, and sweet tea. Plus
some of momma's hugs."
Suze chewed her fingernails a bit till a spot of blood bubbled up. Wiped it on
the bed till it looked like a road. She thought of him, that time he balled his
fists at her. That time he slammed the
door and said, “be back, or not, maybe.”
That time he laughed when she told him of her good memories about
birthday parties back home, mom fixin’ a cake special, mom saying, “make a
wish, hon.” She looked past the motel
room AC wheezing in the corner, past the flyspeck window, and saw a thin shaft
of light easing through the blinds.
"Mom, meet you at the bus station on Wednesday. I'm comin' home."
about the author
Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his 11 chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; Who Am I Today; Dystopia; Grim; and Through Shadows
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