Vox Populi
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Jo McDougall: This Morning
As I drove into town the driver in front of me runs a stop sign. A pedestrian pulls down his cap. A man comes out of his house to sweep the steps. Ordinariness bright as raspberries. I turn on the radio. Somebody tells me the day is sunny and warm. A woman laughs and my daughter steps out of the radio. Grief spreads in my throat like strep. I had forgotten, I was happy, I maybe was humming "You Are My Lucky Star," a song I may have invented. Sometimes a red geranium, a dog, a stone will carry me away. But not for long. Some memory or another of her catches up with me and stands like an old nun behind a desk, ruler in hand.
First published in Dirt, Autumn House Press, Pittsburgh, 2001. Copyright © 2001 by Jo McDougall. Reprinted by permission of the author.
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Two beautiful pieces in one day. Thank you, Michael. Mother’s Day is wonderful and difficult. One child has already texted me beautiful roses. My mother was known as the Rose Lady of Ramona. As I look out my front window the jacaranda has only sparse purple blooms. I remember mom sitting at the table across from that window and discovering over and over the jacaranda’s beauty while I kept my tears to myself and agreed with her again and again.
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Happy Mother’s Day Barbara!
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🤜🤜
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