Fall 2021
Mother Gracie Donovan My mother likes to lay on her bed after she showers. Towel atop her head like a dollop of sour cream, legs crossed at the ankle. When I was a child, sometimes I would join her. Watch as her eyes, “just closing for a minute” flickered and fluttered like an old light bulb. And sometimes, most times, I would run my hands on the skin of her calves giggling when I felt the tiny pinpricks, the sandpaper kittens tongue of her just shaven legs. Back then I’d wonder at the oddness of the feeling rub my own hairless legs and marvel at the difference Now my legs aren’t so hairless anymore and when I sit on my bed after I shower towel atop my head like a dollop of sour cream I rub at the skin of my calves and think of my mother
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