A Story About Our Stories

It is winter and my mother is driving me back to school.

I’m sitting next to her in the passenger seat of the car,

Looking out the window as she captains

Our ship over seas of snow washed fields.

She has turned on my seat warmer for me

And the classical music playing from the radio

Is low volume, coming through in blurred patches

As she starts to talk.

The stories fall from her lips

Like paper dolls strung together at the hands,

Holding on to those just before and after,

Endless befores stretching accordion-like

Back into the well of her throat.

She lets them speak for themselves

As they peel off from each other one by one

And I learn some of their names,

Where they came from

And how they loved.

Jan with the violinist husband,

Nell and her detailed instructions

For managing a general store in Ohio

During the dust bowl,

Kate’s recipe for strudel.

When there are too many

To fit in my outstretched hands

And they start collecting in the cup holders,

I do as my mother did before me

And fold them into my own mouth,

Swallowing delicately to keep

Their paper vocal cords intact.