She
would noodle them on the gas stove
in
the thick of winter, the velvet sky one
off-centered
frame. Father emptied
the
money and even took the light bulbs,
left
mother with only a shelf of cellophane.
Nights
skipped twilight. The icicled pipes whined.
By
day, mother and I walked grocery stores
for
warmth, pocketed napkins and salt packets.
The
noodles were so delicate and clear
they
could be harpsichords of tears.
I
ate them like a dutiful daughter while
I
watched mother try to swallow.
Outside,
mated pairs of swallows often
lingered.
To this day I’m not sure
if
my mother found the swallows or
the
mimicry of mockingbirds the worst.