by Ellen Hagan
“The worst,” StaceyAnn adds.
“You still mean Lucas, right? Not Rodney.
Rodney’s still cool and nice, right?” I ask,
trying not to let it show that even the mention
of Rodney’s name sends me
into complete panic mode.
“Oh yeah, Rodney’s the best.
Not sure why he hangs with Lucas,
but anyway, I beat ’em both so bad
that I swear my tires were smoking.
You know I know my own hill
and my own speed,” she adds,
moving in to high-five us both.
“After that, we all rode around together
talking about seventh grade.
Guess they’re kinda excited.”
“Wonder if they’re nervous too?” Mariella asks
no one in particular.
“Definitely not as nervous as me,” I say.
“I don’t think anyone is as nervous as me.”
In the Mirror
While we’re all getting ready for bed, we stand together
in front of my tiny bathroom mirror. Toothbrushes out.
I look up & see our reflections. All of us still growing up.
Me
Still so skinny, I nearly disappear. Mamaw says slim
but I still wear clothes in the kid section. Childlike
is how I feel. Face full of zits suddenly. My hair
wild & unruly. I want to be sophisticated. Almost
thirteen. My breasts (Mamaw makes me use the correct
word for the correct anatomy) do not exist. My shape
does not exist. Tan now, but by November I’ll be
ghostlike. How long until I look the way I’m supposed to?
Even though I’m not totally sure what that means.
Mariella
Head full of thick black hair that tumbles
every which way. She says it can’t be tamed,
while wrestling it into a hair tie. Her ponytails
last forever & she’s always wishing it shorter
or curlier or easier to manage.
Her brown skin is zit-less. Smooth & acne free
& she’s always saying: Just lucky I guess since none of us
use any fancy face wash or special lotion.
Mariella isn’t even five feet & complains
that she could still use a step stool at the sink.
Mamaw calls her “petite” & high fives her
when the two of them can’t reach the top of the cabinet
but I know Mariella wishes
to be taller & wishes for a reason to wear a bra
& all of this makes us the same
as we read magazines that promise bodies
we still don’t have.
StaceyAnn
Just shaved half of her head. We all said WHOA!
Are you serious!? She was. Easily the gutsiest one of us,
with three earrings up one ear & four up the other.
Seriously, she is not afraid of one thing. Calls herself
“tough” & “strong” & “thick.” Bras are an evil invention,
she says & prefers long T-shirts & sports bras.
She doesn’t care to be any size other than her own.
Olive-toned skin she loves, she calls herself “sun-kissed.”
But she’d like bigger biceps
& her calf muscles to be stronger, more defined.
Says she can do twenty-five push-ups in a row
& wants to make it to fifty. We all want something
we don’t have. That’s kind of comforting to me.
When I Can’t Sleep
My nerves stay stuck in my throat.
Eyes opened wide, moonlight slipping
through the window. It’s too bright.
I’m too scared. I’m too nervous.
I’m too shy around boys.
What if I say the wrong thing?
Why do I care so much
about what everyone thinks?
Just breathe, relax.
Mamaw says to envision what I want,
so I force my eyes closed.
See Rodney Murphy (who is easily
the most comic-book-obsessed
& funniest kid in our class)
riding his bike
right in my direction.
Imagine the words coming easy & loose.
See myself as relaxed as StaceyAnn
gliding wild down the hill.
Being as free as I am with the people I love.
Talking about designing our own superheroes
& debating about Marvel vs. DC & which universe
is our favorite. Saying something like,
“The best universe is the one you’re in,”
& sounding amazing & not too awkward
& not too clunky. But just exactly right.
Cracking jokes & laughing ’til my sides ache,
not so worried about how I’ll show up,
just showing up.
See myself confident. Not all caught up
in pretending to be anyone I’m not.
Midnight
I wake up on the couch hours later,
see StaceyAnn sprawled on the floor
& Mariella curled in the couch corner,
all of us snug with blankets & pillows.
The light in the kitchen flashes on,
& I hear Mom making loud sighs
while loading the dishwasher, clanging
pots & pans, opening & shutting the fridge.
“You and your mamaw are one and the same,”
she says, eyeing me. “A mess from here
to the county line.” She shakes her head,
gets her eyes to roll all the way around.
“Sorry,” I whisper, “it’s our fault. We fell
fast asleep. Pizza was great though. Sorry,”
I say again. Start covering bowls, wiping
counters & stealing leftover bites of pie.
“You two make all the mayhem, and I’m left
cleaning it up. It’s not fair, Beatrice.”
I know she’s right. The two of us storm
& clutter, create chaos together.
It’s true: most of the time Mamaw makes
the most magnificent of messes & Mom
follows along behind her, cleaning them up.
Mamaw says they’re yin & yang.
Interconnected opposites. Slow & fast.
Positive & negative. Quiet & loud. Morning
& night. Summer & winter. Sun & moon.
Earth & sky. Hot & cold. Night & day.
Most of the time, opposites
do not attract, & I’m always in between.
The thread that connects the two, always
a push & pull from here to there.
After Midnight
Mamaw sounds like a train snoring in her room,
asleep in her puffy recliner, book wide open,
sprawled across her chest, lifting up & down.
I cover her with another quilt, study
her silver hair sprouting out, framing
her face like a halo or mane. Wrinkles
etched around her eyes from smiling
& laughing all the time. Crying too.
Mamaw has already lived life
to the fullest. I give her
a silent thank-you
for making me
a little wild
too.
Rise & Keep Shining
That’s my mom’s favorite saying.
She calls our names & I smell bacon.
“You’re cooking?!” I ask, surprised.
“Your mamaw is not the only one
who knows her way around the kitchen,”
my mom says, nearly burning her hand
as she cracks an egg into the skillet.
Mariella & StaceyAnn trail behind me,
taking seats around the table
. They both
give me a look when they see my mom
behind the stove. This is a sight to see.
Mamaw is the kitchen wizard, knife wielder,
garden grower, stove chanter, apron wearer.
Mom is the caregiver, nurse-you-well woman,
Band-Aids for your cuts, thermometer
in the middle of the night. Tuck your sheets,
take your pain away.
They have separate skills,
& when one tries to do what the other does best,
there are problems.
“What in the world?” Mamaw asks, wheeling in
& taking the spatula from Mom’s hands.
“Lisa, you go on now & relax. I got this.”
She nudges my mom with her hip, shoos her away.
“Well, we wouldn’t even be able to cook in here
if I hadn’t cleaned up after you all last night,”
my mom says, an edge in her voice I hardly ever hear.
We exchange looks, not sure if an argument
is about to break out. “Bea, could you please
give me some space?”
Both Mamaw & I look up. My namesake.
We both know she’s talking to Mamaw,
but all of us head on out to the porch,
since it seems like distance
is something we need most.
Beatrice
Maybe my parents
could have chosen a name
not like a granny.
Less grandma, more teenage.
Less arthritic, more athletic.
Less geriatric, more youngish.
Less old-folks home, more spring break.
Less ancient, more modern.
You get the idea.
The fact that it really is my mamaw’s name
doesn’t make it any better.
Fact is—it makes it worse.
Because I love my mamaw
more than the ocean
or french toast
or sleeping in
or bacon.
& when I don’t spend all my time hating it,
my name becomes a beacon.
Some light to hang on to
when it’s too dark
to see myself.
Porch Swinging
That’s where I find Mom late afternoon,
her feet curled up beneath her,
a magazine laid out on her lap.
After the burned bacon & runny eggs,
after the tension & tight talking,
after Mariella & StaceyAnn headed home,
after I tried to ride out the whole afternoon
buried in a book in my room,
after I cleaned the whole kitchen myself,
since Mom & Mamaw headed out
in different directions,
I found myself
feeling more
alone.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, taking a seat
swinging right along beside her.
“She’s sorry too,” I add,
knowing Mamaw hasn’t thought twice
about Mom or the kitchen or the mess.
Mom gives me a hard stare.
We both look up.
Mamaw is humming in the garden,
spending time in her sacred space.
Not one care at all.
“Deep down. She’s sorry waaayyy
deep down.” We both laugh.
“I know your mamaw prides herself
on being unique, a character, just exactly
who she is every second of every day,
but some of the time those eccentricities
make other people feel … covered up …
like I’m in her shadow,” Mom says,
her eyes welling up.
“I love, love that you two are so close,
but sometimes I feel left out.”
“I love you,” I say to my mom & mean it.
“There’s only one Mom and there’s only one Mamaw.”
We look again & see Mamaw rolling her hips,
dancing to the music of the flowers & cornstalks
twirling in the breeze.
“Thank goodness,” Mom says, & we both giggle
knowing this love & this Mamaw
are as rare as they come.
More to Know
“Look at me,” Mamaw says later that night.
Both of us back in the kitchen. This time, cleaning
as we go. Mamaw schooling me like always.
“I didn’t go to college, barely even finished high school,
all truth be told. Back then, they called it ‘country smarts.’
My daddy taught me planting and seeding and seeing
and canning. My papaw & mamaw taught me history
and land and growing and how to tend to the land
and my own hunger. How to manage a kitchen.
That’s exactly what I’m teaching to you. Then I learned
how to serve, wait tables, wait on people, learned
to know just exactly what they wanted and needed.
’Course I wanted more for myself,” she says. Quieter now.
“Chef. Master gardener. Own a restaurant. Travel
the world.” Her eyes mist up. I can tell because she stands
& starts to roll her shoulders back.
“Everything I learned, I learned from the sidelines.
So I’ve always wanted you to be on the field.
Not learning from some junky old computer
or stuck on a phone. But in it.”
Swimming
Jumping
Running
Riding
Flying
Floating
Free.
“That’s what I wanted. For both you and me.”
Pastry Chef
That’s the official name for what Mamaw is.
But seeing as she never went to culinary school
& learned most everything from experimenting,
trying new things, taste testing & searching,
they just call her Ms. Bea at Bardstown Baked,
the delicious dessert shop where Mamaw
has remained queen of cakes & caramels,
ruler of treats & sweets. She’s only part-time now,
but in her heyday, she was Queen Bea,
developing new visions,
meringues & candy coatings, fruit pies
& fun flavored ice creams like Kentucky Derby pie swirl
& mint julep sorbet. The owners still love her every idea.
She calls herself a confectionary consultant
& I love that she spends her days inventing new ways
to make people silly with sugary highs.
Mamaw, Mom & Me
Is the way it’s been since I was born.
On account of the fact that my dad died
while Mom was seven months along.
On account of slick roads December
riding windy Old Bardstown Road home.
On account of another car spinning still
sliding reckless & relentless toward him.
On account of it being early morning—home
from his night shift at the factory.
On account of new work for a new baby,
on account of that new baby being me.
Things My Dad Was Gonna Be Great At
Football, even though Mamaw says
“It makes your brain blow up
and no one in their right mind
needs to be tackling or getting tackled.”
Still, he was good at it.
Medicine, since he always got all A’s in science class.
“He sure was a genius,” Mamaw says.
Cooking. He could scramble the meanest eggs
this side of the Appalachians. Bake biscuits,
salmon croquettes & garlicky cheese grits.
Crossword puzzles. He got that from Mamaw,
> who can do them in high-speed record time.
She says he got most of his greatness
from her. And some (a little) from Papaw,
who she misses most times too.
All the men in our life gone too soon.
She says my dad woulda been great
at everything but that most of all,
he would’ve been great
at loving me.
Things I’m Gonna Be Great At
Speaking my whole mind.
As Mamaw says,
“Beatrice, honey,
you’ve got a whole lot to say
and all the words to say it.”
Bringing people together.
I’ve always loved an open house.
Learned that from Mamaw
& the way she keeps our front door
swinging open.
Healing. Learned that from Mom,
who can stitch a wound
& bandage a broken bone
or heart or soul.
Planting. Since Mamaw says
I inherited her green thumb
& can plant any ol’ thing
& have the patience
to watch it grow.
Bardstown, Kentucky
Rolling hills, grass
so blue, it’s green.
Creek beds
& catching crawdads,
firefly Friday nights.
Fish fry & corn bread.
Fried chicken livers,
pork chops covered
in BBQ. Porch sitting
all day. Glider
or swing, back
& forth. Main Street
slow drawl, honey
pecans, fresh peaches
in the summertime,
a watermelon sliced
