Evening Chores

Evening Chores


Praying Mantis stiff she turns from wiping water from the sink,
(I will never understand wiping water from the sink)
Blue eyes flashing from within a background of white and black she assesses
the pile of accumulation under my broom
“Hurry up, take out the garbage, get to your homework.”
Confident she leaves the kitchen for her seat in front of the T.V.

Mumble, mumble. Hurry up, take out the garbage, homework, neay, neay.
Careful not to say the words aloud, bravery is for those who can hit back.
Roll the top of the bag, smell the day’s bits and pieces, cantaloupe, coffee grounds, cigarette butts, check for a wet bottom, grab another bag for just in case.

It never hits me until I walk out of the kitchen and stand at the screen door.
The kitchen lights reflecting pale on the back steps, I wait sour stomach, nose against the screen, breathing in the dust and wire smell, finger hesitating on the latch before the dark pits at either end of the porch push me out.

Quick! Quick! Hit them running before the door slams the light away.
Hop, step, 2, 4, land in the light.
Get to the end before the red geraniums turn gray.
Bang, security gone, legs of lead slow as warmth rises from my bowels.

The path is dark, but I know the way, 1, 2, then turn.
Don’t look at the vegetable garden with its rats and snakes and spiders waiting to jump at you.
Don’t look at the harvest kitchen windows marching along the wall with ghosts and goblins peering out just waiting for you to see them to life.
Don’t look at the Fig tree, that in the sun is warm and sweet and safe,
but by stars is large and black and holds greasy, oily beings that suck out your heart.
Don’t look at the prickly pear cactus with its many headed ogres that stay still when you look at them, then writhe uncontrollably from the corner of your eye.

Keep your eyes on the square of darkness against the garage that means half done.
Don’t break the bag, go slow with vibrating fingers, be sure the lid is on, you don’t want to come back.
Turn and retrace, drum beating throat pushes the lead from my legs and they move by themselves striding to the square of light.
Just get up the steps and through the door and they can’t get you, slip and you’re done for.

I made it.

Standing inside the door on the porch, I find my arms and legs again.
I breathe in the light from the kitchen.

Darkness jolts my heart.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to slam the door!”
Crackle from my ear to my cheek.
Sting as her hand leaves my face.
Lemon burst tears rise all at once.
Mouth knows the words on it own: “I’m sorry, Grandma, I forgot.”

Whew! I am safe now.