Lorelei Kay

                         

                        PAPER GENERATIONS

 My father said,

 “I need to fix the roof,”

 and, “Yes, I’ll help you write your poem.”

 

My mother said, 

“I need to wash the dishes,”

and, “Yes, I’ll make your wedding dress.”

 

My sister said,

“Parents are like wallpaper.

We hardly even notice them

 

while we’re growing up.

We take for granted they’re

 always there surrounding us.”

 

I asked my sister,

“How did Mom and Dad first meet?

How did he propose?  I never thought to ask.”

 

My sister said,

And where’d she live when he went

overseas?  I didn’t ask them, either.”

 

The chiming clock reminds me

I’ve become

the wallpaper

 

in this room of life,

laden with recollections

hanging loosely from the seams.

 

And I now hold layers of

dreams and schemes and memories—

if someone were just to ask.

Banning the Bean

 

Dashing home after third grade, I pushed aside

our heavy front door and ran inside hollering,

“Mom, I’m…” when the odor stopped me cold.

 

What in tarnation was that horrid smell?

Couldn’t be—not in our home—not coffee.

Our Mormon faith banned that brown bean.   

 

It reeked of revolting sin. Disobedience.

Dereliction. Disgraceful enough to separate

our family eternally in the heavens.

 

Mom hurriedly, apologetically, explained.

The brew was doctor’s orders. Prescribed

to hopefully curb her excruciating migraines.

 

I don’t recall that dank odor ever permeating

our home again, but I do recall Mom’s lifelong

struggle with her horrendous headaches.

 

Did guilt keep her from rebrewing the beans?

 

It’s been many years. Much has changed.

The aroma of my morning cup of freshly brewed

coffee wafts up, surrounding me with warmth

 

and filling me with memories. Thoughts drift

to Mom’s dilemma, and I envision how wondrous

it would be if she might now be reposing

 

on a cloud, at last headache-free, a radiant angel

presenting her on each breaking dawn with

the freshest mug of heavenly-scented coffee

 

in the universe, sweetened to perfection, laced

with starry-like swirls of cream gleaned from

the milky way—and to top it off, each golden

 

cup served completely, and eternally, guilt free.