16
Open House
Victoria Nordlund
My mother is in my house. She has
auburn hair. It is no longer white. She
is not in a wheelchair. She is not ash
in the green urn in the curio cabinet.
We are in a kitchen I do not recognize.
The walls are brown. I am barefoot
on a buckling linoleum floor.
There are no blinds or tables or chairs.
She stirs oatmeal around and around
on a coal stove. There are frying pans of fat.
Her hands are working again-- not stiff
with arthritis or Rigor mortis.
She is smiling, I am not.
I don’t know what time it is. I can’t find
my phone, or my keys, or a spoon,
or anyone still alive who loves me.
I decide it doesn’t matter.
I am tired of waiting for everything
to be ready. I drink wine now
from the faucet; maybe it is blood.
I hear a distant applause of mouse traps
in the basement. I don't remember setting
them. I want to pretend the rodents are not down
there, or up here defecating in my drawers.
The cellar door is sealed to keep the flesh
flies out. It is now a wall with a mirror. She
applies her Lancome lipstick and liquid liner.
This place needs some sprucing.
We are in the entryway sorting
through socks. I can’t find any matches.
It is raining. There are books and bones
and soggy boxes stacked to the ceiling.
I forget what is inside.
She climbs familiar stairs with me. Clutches
her black pocket book and flip phone.
I wonder how it is still charged.
I have never seen some of these rooms.
My mom is touring my mind and I will it
to be remodeled and beautiful---but nothing
has changed: The beds are unmade;
the toilets are unflushed; the holes are even
larger in the carpets that have been fading
here since 1983. And I’ve tried to turn off
every light to hide the mess I know
she sees. It is 3:00 AM and I am not sure
if I am awake. I think she is still in a cluttered
corner of my bedroom gathering scraps
of paper and tape to wrap my present.
Don't peek or it will ruin the surprise---