Happy Make-Believe
My mother’s dressing gown is dark green velvet,
three velvet buttons I love to stroke.
She’s climbing twenty-one wooden stairs,
coming to say goodnight.
Her emerald-ring hand glides up the banister,
right hand lifts the full-length folds
as she feels for each narrow plank
with neat, black-slippered feet.
My mother is slim and light of step,
not yet ground down
by hard work or the hurt
of infidelity.
Each night she makes up tales—
a hero fighting dragons,
a princess saved by a prince—
casting my brother and me
in all the central roles,
building for us a world
of happy make-believe
while hers collapses.
*
Downstairs she draws the damask curtains
of green, almost black,
to block out the cold,
and heats, reheats his dinner.
The hours are long and black.
The garage door slams shut.
The front door closes with hollow click—
he’s home, he’s eaten already.
*
Morning. My mother’s dress is pale green poplin,
calf-length, wrap-round, bow tied firm.
She sets out cereal, eggs, toast, apple,
hovers between sink and stove.
He sits behind his paper,
sipping sweetened coffee.
The front door clicks again, he’s gone
until tonight, late.
She gazes down the hallway. Softly speaks:
Then the King strode forth to court,
turns and gathers us
into another tale.
Liz McQuilkin
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