WHISTLING
MOTHER
by
Karla Huston
My
mother whistles under her breath,
all
day, all the time. Not the sweet
song
birds make but a toothy melody,
a
skipped record, her lips pursed to a point.
She
does this leaning over the sink
to
peel potatoes, spooning coffee
into
the basket, clearing the table.
She
whistles in the car when she’s not
sighing
or sorting through tissues and bottles
full
of pills. She does it while watching TV,
paging
through magazines,
maybe
even while she sleeps.
The
tune is always the same, al dente
half
song, a few notes rising and falling.
I
wonder how my father can stand it.
Maybe
he’s just tuned her out,
after
all those years of chucking nickels
into
the jukebox of her mouth.
My
own daughter tells me I do
the
same thing, and I admit it, catch
myself
sometimes--lips puckered, teeth
set,
the air adjusting its wings, hoping the birds
are
waiting, their ears cocked just so.
~
first published in North Coast Review
