Conjuring Mom

VICKI ADDESSO

Word Count 960

In my twenties, I moved out of my parents’ house, but once or twice a week, I would stop by to see my mother. after work, before I met my friends at a bar or a restaurant.

My father would be at work — he was a firefighter and sometimes worked night shifts — or upstairs in the bedroom, reading. From the foyer, I’d walk into the kitchen, through the dining room, and stand in the doorway to the living room. I’d see my mother before she knew I was there. She’d be sitting cross-legged on the sofa, slippers on the floor, crocheting a blanket that rested on her lap. Beside her on the table was the ashtray where her Winston cigarette burned, and a green glass beer mug. I’d see her in profile as she stared at the TV, her hands moving as if they had minds of their own. She’d pause, left hand reaching for the beer mug. She'd take a sip, put it back down on the table, pick up the cigarette and take a drag, put it back, and then her hands would resume crocheting, her eyes always on the television.