PIN IT

This is my mother, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the box tv, a damp and dirty Pooh Bear kitchen towel draped over her shoulder, flecks of tomato gravy on her white short-sleeved cotton v-neck, her black hair curly hair pushed off her face with a headband, and she’s whipping a joystick back and forth on the portable arcade box Daddy bought us (read: her) for Christmas. Maaaaa, we want a turn. We drape ourselves over the couch in dramatic protest. Yea, yea, just wait a minute- ooh! On the screen Ms. Pac-Man womp, womp, womps, then flashes back to life. And Ma’s round-tipped nose is pink and shiny and I just think she’s the prettiest lady and as Ms. Pac-Man juuuuust manages to eat all the little blue ghosts before they turn back to colored hunters, she screams so blood-curdlingly loud that we pop up from the couch and jump on the cushions. That one!! He’s coming! and she doesn’t even care that we’re jumping on the cushions because we aren’t even there and Daddy thunders up from the basement, his socked feet sliding on the hardwood floor just as Ma eats the last pellet! What?! What happened?! His eyes are wide and his burly frame fills up the room, but we laugh, we giggle into the pillows and roll off the couch. Mommy is demurely holding her hand to her lips and laughing saying Sorsy to Daddy and trying not to laugh.

This is my mother pulling a bag of homemade cold pesto pizza, pignoli cookies, tuxedo brownies and breaded chicken cutlets out in the movie theatre while the preview trailers play, and here we are in our seats that we stepped on before we sat down in to check for needles, because you never know, waiting for Ma to dole out the goods. And she has no idea how loudly she’s talking, and she throws me a bag of pignoli cookies because they’re my favorite, but she hits me in the head and Daddy has to apologize to the people around us because she when she laughs she screams. Now we’re hiding behind the seats and praying no one can see our faces but Ma doesn’t care. What? The movie hasn’t started yet! We giggle but don’t dare come up till the lights go down.

This is my mother at the dinner table before the feast she made, multiple dishes for a weeknight dinner because she likes to have a variety and hates single dish meals, says they remind her of the Dutch. Her plate is nearly empty, and she has one elbow on the table, her head propped up by her hand and her eyes drooping, the fork slowly making its way up to her mouth as she forces another bite. I’m so full, she says but now she’s forking pushed-aside caramelized onions and nibbled bits of pastry and irregular pieces London broil off our plates. You’re not gonna eat that? Wasters! Look, you left the best part…yum. And Daddy shakes his head at her but he’s trying not to smile. We make eyes at each other across the table but our lips twitch because we’re trying not to smile. We tell her Ma, just don’t eat anymore. But it’s so good! Mommy laughs and her cheeks are round and strawberry. She is petite and olive-toned. Her belly is like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag, small but bottomless. And now we’re all on the linoleum kitchen floor, on our backs. Ma’s hair is fanned out and we try to lay our heads on her stomach so we can feel her laugh but her voice rings at a pitch when we do, I’ll puke! and then resonates into laughter and wish I can laugh like her, with my whole body, but I put my head on her chest to nuzzle in her bosom and Daddy calls me Rizzo the rat, and Mommy laughs so hard that the vibration tickles my ear. And I know that this is my mother.