Mother’s Day Dreamer

I woke up about four a.m.

and looked down the hall

at the fridge, hoping to see

Little Miss Midnight Mouse

eating the cottage cheese

in her blue nightie.

 

There she was, her hunched frame aglow.

She turned around and smiled

her dark chocolate eyes at me

and raised the small curds

like a wine glass.

“Oh honestly!”

 

“Oh honestly what Mom?”

“It’s not time for you yet.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about this place Jerry.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“You are dreaming again.”

 

“If I am, I don’t want to wake up.”

As Mom began walking toward me,

the fridge light brightened,

and her body was surrounded

with golden shards that dripped

to the creaking floor.

 

“Jerry, remember how you always

prayed Jesus would visit me in my dreams.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, he said it would be okay if

I showed up in one of yours.

That Frosty from Wendy’s right

 

before you fell asleep was my ticket.”

“Comfort food enhanced dream, eh?”

“God has a sense of humor too, Gerald.”

“Mom.” I reached to pat her head.

She stepped back out of reach.

I put my arm down.

 

“You caught me with the leftovers,

and I wanted to be waiting for you

at the dining room table so we could

talk and drink Maxwell House.”

She straightened up

and opened her freckled arms.

 

I fell into her embrace and wept.

She clasped my hand and pulled

me toward the table that had two

mugs steaming, one with lipstick

pasted on the rim.

We were together until my alarm bleeped.