Wearing a homemade long skirt, pastel plaid, cut
on the bias, with a frilly blouse with a scooped
neck, she’s smiling as she lifts fat sausage links
from the pot. On her left shoulder, a corsage
of gold bells and holly with a gold bow. This
is late sixties, my mother in her late forties,
the table set for ten behind her with Waterford,
silver, china in the narrow dinette of that Brooklyn
house. Close to the ceiling, a small chandelier
festooned with red satin ornaments, ribbons, tinsel.
Her apron’s missing, removed before she let me
take this shot of her, nearly candid as she lifts
the fat links to an antique platter I passed on
to someone years ago. Her left hand held
to show her rings, sparkling in the sudden light
of my Brownie StarFlash camera. A memory caught,
obscuring the rest of the night with other dishes,
perhaps veal and peppers, ricotta cheesecake, espresso,
and anisette after dinner. I can’t say who came
to celebrate that night, can’t even be sure of the year.
I hold the memory of this photo, not the memory
of expected toasts offered with glasses lifted.
There’s only my mother, dressed for the holiday,
one gold hoop earring shining, forever holding
sausages aloft, letting grease drip back into the pot.
INSTANT NOODLES 