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Apple Blossom Time

APPLE BLOSSOM TIME

My mother and father sit at the kitchen table
a few years after World War II, the table with aluminum legs
and cracked porcelain top. My mother spreads a clean cloth
of starched white linen. She frets over a smudge in the fabric.
My father talks about the war. He opens a pack of Target tobacco
as my mother spreads the starched white linen tablecloth.
My father does not notice the grease. He talks about the war.
A dull light bulb, coated with grime and dust,
hangs from the ceiling by a cord. My father has not had time
to change it, to make brighter the light. He talks about the war.

My mother worries about the smudge, has tried everything.
Lemon juice won't touch it, nor Oxydol.
My father curses the interminable waiting in lines
during the war, and Indian toilets - he was stationed in Karachi.
An explosion blinded two Yanks. My mother spreads
the tablecloth. She listens to "Apple Blossom Time"
on a small Bakelite radio and hums along.
My father sprinkles Target onto cigarette paper.
My mother fears a burning ash might scorch the linen.
She cuts her finger on a chopping board.
Her blood seeps into the onion.

My father blows a blue smoke ring and thumps the table.
My mother feels the sting of lemon in her cut.
My father says that war saved the economy.
My mother wraps gauze around her finger and slices
a pecan pie just removed from the oven. She hopes
no one will notice the grease spot. My father smokes
and talks about the war. The Andrews Sisters
swirl in my mother's head. The murky kitchen light
makes smudges hard to see. My mother never asks
my father to replace the bulb. My father has doubts
about Eisenhower. My mother says we're out of Ajax.
Tomorrow is grocery day, and she compiles a list.
My father says we had to bomb Japan.

I am somewhere in the house, so is my baby sister.
My sister will not remember our father talking about the war
or mother fretting over a tablecloth. Or the kitchen table.
The war, my father says, made us older. My mother is not old.
Nor is my father. Hitler got the economy rolling, he laughs.
My mother and father sit in the kitchen. A small Bakelite radio
plays The Andrews Sisters. My mother thinks that grease
from the bulb dripped onto the table. She has tried everything.
My father rolls a cigarette. He licks the edge and folds
the paper into a cylinder. He strikes a Diamond match
with his fingernail, a trick he learned in India.
My mother tells him we're out of Ajax. My father talks
about the war. I am somewhere in the house, but where?
Where is my sister? My mother's grocery list is long.
My father says don't forget the Target.
He says war ended the Depression, not FDR. My mother coughs
when the cigarette smoke gets too viscous. My sister and I
must be playing in another room. Sometimes we run
into the kitchen and see our parents sitting at a kitchen table
with aluminum legs. A white cupboard. The orange pack
of Target tobacco. A smudge on the starched white linen.
Our mother rubbing it with lemon juice. The bandage
on her finger, the wedding ring. A dull, smoky yellow light.
We're out of Ajax. The room is dim. Stinking holes in India.
The war is over. Our father's back. Hitler dead. The economy
looks good. We're going to buy a new car, a Plymouth V-8,
my father says. My sister is too young to remember.
I sway close enough to that edge of oblivion myself,
where whorls of darkness break forth as glowing suds
and shadows ignite the forms that galvanize our lives.
Our mother and father sit at the kitchen table.

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