Lamar Howell's Weblog

There she stood,

short and dumpy

with her waist-long black tresses.

She always sat in front of the round mirror of the dresser

and wound her jet-black hair mysteriously around her head,

held there by a half-dozen aluminum wave-clamps.

I remember the day I  broke that familiar mirror

by throwing a pan of snap beans at my brother.

She never punished me for my rage,

except for the look of disappointment in her eyes.

Those brown eyes, sparkling

as they reflected a glint from the light

hitting her front teeth,

two of which were set in a border of gold

like two tiny picture frames around square ivory treasures.

She always came into the living room at night

wearing her calf-length flower-print cotton dresses

holding her Bible with both hands,

pressed securely against her rounded pouch.

She wore rows in her wrinkled telling brow,

each one a skin-carved diary of labored years.

We always made room in our line by the hearth

as she stood there to warm herself and sigh.

She worked hard for love of her brood,

and labored on till her legs slightly bowed out

below the knees when she walked,

and her kneecaps were calloused over

from the floor boards by her bed

where she knelt and prayed.

Her back was bowed slightly from reaching down at work

to pull spindles of yarn up onto the spinning machines.

One day, it was at that very mill that her heart bowed till it broke.

I just remembered, there’s a huge broken mirror in my garage

I need to clean up before I get cut.

There’s a small piece of mirror wedged in my heart too, and when I look at it

I see Mama.