Silverware

by Cathe Lieb


The steel town girl acquired silverware
somewhere along the way.
After she died, my sister said
“you can have it,” to which I replied
“I didn’t know Mom had any.”
“Yes,” my sister said, “she took it out
on special occasions.”

Apparently my being there
was never special enough.

When my sister was two and dressed in
ruffles and lace my mother said,
“I’ve always wanted a daughter.”

My sister was ten years younger than I was.

In a dream my mother stands,
with thick coat and support hose.
Hair rolled on nape of neck,
her round face smiles at me and I
hug her saying “Mommy, I love you.”

She hugs me back.


* * * * *

Cathe Lieb lives and picks up rocks in Oregon. She randomly pets dogs and runs a free library out of a retired phone booth. Her house backs up to a bit of forest with a seasonal creek. She dreams of ghosts and time travel.