I invited my mother to dinner
With some of my closest friends.
She passed the bread
To my friend from the summer
After high school.
The one who occasionally
Followed boys into dark rooms,
Denim shorts undone,
Lips tasting of malt beverage
And “Tell me I’m pretty.”
She made small talk
With my freshman year roommate,
The girl who sat
On plastic and porcelain,
Praying for one line not two,
Who breathed with relief,
Tossed the evidence,
Threw on her peacoat and scarf,
And joined her family
To cut down a Christmas tree.
She split dessert with
My mom friend,
The one who smokes joints
On the porch,
On the deck,
Or on occasion,
Around the kitchen table.
She looked across the room
And claimed to want to chat
With the women
Who harbor secret tears,
Secret lines in their skin,
Secret habits of pinching their sides,
Secret hopes, fears, doubts
That sometimes surface
While silently stirring soup on the stove,
And somehow
She never computed
That there were only two
At this table.
Laurie Hahn Ganser is a mother, partner, and fierce advocate of the written word. Her professional days are spent championing reading and writing in public schools and supporting educators through curriculum coordination and instructional coaching. Her personal time is spent momming her two children, Lydia and Holden, frequenting indie bookstores, and loving on all of the quirky fun Minneapolis has to offer. Laurie's writing can be found at the Huffington Post, Shakesville, Medium, and Herstry (forthcoming).
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