A Look in the Mirror

          

by Debbie Shipman

  I am standing in my kitchen on tired feet, the day’s store of energy long past exhausted. On the floor, near my left foot, are the smashed remains of a corn chip. Behind me is the smear of grape jelly I just walked through; the sound of my sticking shoe and the millisecond of hesitation as I lift my foot reveal this information. Skinny Raman noodles snake over the edge of a saucepan, their cellophane packages strewn about the counter-top beside the stove. This room should be cordoned off as a disaster area, aid applied for immediately.  I know the expression on my face. I can feel it. It is the same tired look I remember Mama wearing.

            This transformation into my mother, which I have always sworn would never, ever happen, has been pushed along by Ry, my oldest son, and six of his puberty stricken, bottomless-pit-for-stomachs, friends. Just as I hauled in the last bag from a carload of groceries— by myself as usual—boys swarmed the house like locusts. The word pestilence is not adequate. Did they know by some psychic trick of youth, a gut feeling as it were, that I had gone grocery shopping today? Or, was it a random spin of the wheel that caused the locusts to swarm and my son to stand here, Vanna White style, arm extended, palm up, inviting his guests to enjoy these “fabulous prizes”?

            Nothing was safe, with the possible exception of a sack of flour. That— and the baking soda I bought to replace the old yellow box in the refrigerator. The chips are nearly gone; there are some broken up pieces still in the bag, and a mess of crumbs lies suspended in the remains of a tub of French onion dip. The carton of milk is standing in the fridge with barely enough left to moisten a bowl of cereal. Not to worry, the cereal boxes are probably empty anyway. Everything that can be considered a snack food, or takes less than ten minutes to prepare, has either been consumed or is spilled on the countertop. Now I know what my mother meant when she said that we, her children and our friends, were going to eat her “out of house and home”. She did mean that literally.

            I don’t recall any of us kids bringing home more than two, maybe three, friends at a time. But, there were four of us. That, added to the fact that some of our friends came for dinner and didn’t leave for days (occasionally a month or more) must have contributed to the perpetually barren, habitually ransacked look of Mama’s kitchen – and to the often tired expression on her face— now passed on to me.

            In the days following Mama’s funeral countless friends from childhood reminded me what a welcoming home she made for us and for them. One young woman said to me, “Remember when I stayed at your house for a month when I was evicted from my first apartment?” She was actually my older sister Renee’s friend and, yes, I do remember. Another friend, one I had known since grade school, told me she’d never forget how Mama was so sweet to let her stay with us when she was fighting with her parents, which was often. When kids ran away from their own homes, they ran to ours. Mama took them all in like stray cats and let them hang around until they were strong enough to go home or move on.

            Other friends reminisced over Mama’s salty homemade dill pickles and her crispy, crunchy fried chicken. Nobody, but nobody, fried a chicken better than Mama did. Our friends Mara and Leslie, whose family served things like kibbe (raw hamburger balls) and lefse (God knows what), thought Mama, who could make anything edible by frying it, was at least among the best cooks in the world. All these years later, and they still rave about her cream gravy like it was a foreign gourmet sauce.

            So here I stand, tired feet bonded to the sticky floor, and I feel my shoulders uncurling from their slumped position, my lips pulling themselves into the beginnings of a smile. As I grab a dishcloth and begin to wipe crumbs off the countertop, I feel a speck of gratitude growing inside me. I guess I should feel blessed because my kids think our house is a good place to bring their perpetually ravenous running buddies. I’m glad they feel welcome here. 
         My mama was a beautiful woman and I'm good with seeing her face when I look in the mirror. But dang, why do I look like the tired version?

I wrote this in December of 2004. The children have long since flown the coop and we can't figure out on whom to blame the messy kitchen.