My mother prepared for our visit. Excited, anticipating. My aunt allowed as much during a phone conversation weeks ago. I see the plausibility. Why is it like this? Four days a year? To diaspora joins the nuclear family and extended divisions, revisions, additions. At one time I had eight grandparents. Here, there, north south, everywhere. Summers away from school a rock band on tour a politician on the trail, sometimes groping for stability. So I see her once a year and many say I’m lucky. What happened to mom in the rocking chair in the warm kitchen telling stories, quotidian moments or holidays? Went somewhere and can’t tell you we’re doing better. It’s not holding on to some old way, back there, idealized. It’s we’re all missing something. Gaps in the family maps. Not convinced the new augmented man finds sanity in corporeal sanctity. Screaming TV preacher isn’t offering what we need. Football America’s violent release, and beyond Friday nights or Sundays does it provide? I’ll take some silicon breasts and a face lift. Move to LA. Hungry for my own show. My mother I miss her throughout the year and now we’re here. House clean, mirrors sharp shining, clock wound, decorations, sparkling oak floors, knick-knacks, small touches. I see her getting ready.
