A
Childhood Visit
by Marilyn Zelke-Windau
The
Scotty dog, our only toy,
knew
how to behave.
He,
who stood stiff-legged,
closed-jawed,
black,
in the corner,
under
the window seat,
with
perked ears,
listened.
He
knew.
He
had a red plaid collar.
He
was stuffed, not allowed at table.
We
were,
but
not to speak.
Great
Aunt Anna, with tight, grey
braid-pinned,
circle hair,
who
Mom, through family rights,
called
Annie,
served
us ham, and dill pickles
from
a barrel
in
the back yard
in
Milwaukee
We
saw it.
It
was wooden and had scum
on
the brine surface
where
the pickles bobbed.
I
didn’t say a word.
I
just threw up.
German
was spoken.
The
bathroom was tiled in black
and
white. The towel was stiff
on
my lip.
Courteous
apologies were offered.
Come
agains were proffered.
Dad
drove home—
Mom’s
usual journey.
A
White Sox game voiced
balls,
not strikes.
I
slept in the back window shelf
of
the Studebaker,
all
the way to Chicago
purged.
~
first published at Brawlerlit.com
