Ann Parrent
She Said
My mother stood at the stove, asked me to give her a rest; to take over stirring, or to mind the temperature, I don’t remember which. After a minute I complained, said it was too hot, too boring, too much work.
I remember she looked at me hard; a way she rarely did. She took my arm, held up my skinny wrist, examined my right hand. I remember she said, “This hand hasn’t done a day’s worth of work in its life.” She let go, put herself in front of me, scooted me aside. She said with her body, “Fine, I’ll do it my own self.”
She often had marks on her wrists, like little eyebrows; some were brown, some red and angry looking, some dried up and pink. I reached out to touch them and asked, “Mama, what’s these?”
She flinched, pulled her hand to her chest, rubbed on her wrist where my finger had been. “It’s from the oven.”
“Why’d the oven do that to you?”
“I did it my own self, putting your dinner in and pulling it out to feed you.” She said, “Stay clear of those racks; they’ll get you when you’re in a hurry.”
She said keep potholders away from spills. She said cook your eggs in butter, they’ll taste better. The crust is the best part of the pie, the heel the best part of the loaf. Mix a few unripe berries in with the ripe, and a pinch of salt.
She said take a bite plain, so you’ll know the difference. Those beans aren’t going to eat themselves. She said one more bite; just one, please, and you may leave the table.
She said wash your face before bed, you’ll sleep better. She said one stitch at a time; elbow grease is the best polish.
Honesty is the best policy, say please and thank you, wearing black is inappropriate for young girls, let the boys come to you, be home by 11:00.
She never said don’t, until she said don’t marry a man with a beard or a mustache unless you know what he looks like without them. Don’t marry a man who doesn’t like to read.
I remember her words now, when I bake a cake, when I roast a chicken, when I burn the toast. I remember when I make my own marks on my own wrists.
Ann Parrent is a writer, gardener, cook, caretaker – not always in that order. She keeps a wild and jungle-y garden, with birds, toads, spiders, some rabbits. She writes from observations in grocery stores, lobbies, gas stations, airports, family reunions and thrift shops.
