Credit: Hohberger US Pat No. 2712443
Published in Variant Lit Magazine, Issue 20, Spring 2025
I flew to Michigan for Christmas Eve.
Mom was in the kitchen cooking like it was a penance: ham, turkey, mashed and sweet potatoes, three kinds of vegetables, biscuits, and pies – many pies. The windows were steamy.
“How can I help?” I asked from the doorway. At seventy, Mom still preferred doing the cooking, all sweat and glory.
“Lisa!” Mom feigned surprise. “When did you arrive?”
“Just now. You make enough?”
“It’s like the loaves and the fishes. Your father invites everyone he sees. I cook, and it works every time.”
“A marvel.”
“You know,” Mom frowned. “I wish you’d do your hair differently.” She held out her arms for a hug, but I backed away.
“I like it this way,” I couldn’t recall my last haircut.
When my sister and I were kids, Mom gave us pixie cuts. She had no patience for long hair and its daily detangling. I hated those haircuts. Since moving out, I’ve worn my hair shoulder-length or longer.
“How many people are out there?” Mom draped a dish towel around her neck. Her apron was stained with the day. She was barefoot.
“At least twenty, including Dad’s friends from AA or the Fellowship – I can’t tell which.”
“The AA contingent are better dressed.”
“Okay. Plus the kids; another five. And three dogs.”
Suzanne C Martinez 