She Smells of Lemon

A Story-Poem

Issue #14

Daughter

She smells of lemon
in the wee hours of the night
when the refrigerator door
opens a crack and reveals
a blinding flash of light.
I am her mother and 
I have watched her grow
and have feared deep within
my heart that the wolf will find
and rape her, tearing out 
the best of what she has
to offer. I watch her as she sleeps
on the twin oak bed,
the quilted covers pulled up
against her smooth neck,
her silver eyelids closed,
her lips twisted like a pretzel.

She is her mother's only child
and I wish I could be with her forever
to fight those battles that try
a young virgin's heart. To see
her fade into the background
when a young rat-face boy calls
on the jabber phone and pins
her with his words and mental pictures
breaks my heart into a dozen pieces.

I walk the thin streets in search
of avenues that might give me
an answer and free me from the worry
that plagues my emotional thoughts.
She cries sometimes as she falls to sleep
and I capture the tears in a small
glass bottle to be preserved for eternity.
Each tear is a prized possession
that fills my heart with anguish.
The liquid is smooth and silky
to the touch of these old fingers,
bent from years of backbreaking toil.
Her eyes speak of miracles seen by
the Blessed Virgin and I wonder what
price she will have to pay to leave
this place a free woman, able to 
walk on her own two feet and
face the music as it plays.

We sometimes sit in rocking chairs,
staring into the barren darkness
at the void that picks our brains.
She is quicker than I to understand
the world of fairies and elves
and other night creatures. I follow
her down the path of the forbidden
into the wilderness of sorrow.
The path leads through a forest
of regret, where the branches prick
our souls and scar our hearts. We
feel each prick like a knife biting flesh.

We are God's children encased in love.
I follow her tears and scream for revenge.
She has tasted lemonade and is crushed
by the way her tongue rebels at the taste.
She is my only child, and I wander down
a dozen roads looking for the answer
that will set her free from the evils ahead.
But there is little protection I can offer.
She is headstrong and independent.
I catch her tears in bottles and offer them
as a sacrifice to the god who scratches
our backs. She smiles at me, and I melt.

I understand the pain she feels and revel
in the joy she tastes. The night is so young
as she lays her head on my shoulder,
her long hair like a horse's tail. I catch
her winking at me and vanishing into 
the mist. I wait for her to return like
a good mother, but wonder if I have lost
her this time for good. I worry like a bee
after a flower. I keep returning to
the vision that brushes the faces of all
women. I am my mother's daughter
and the mother of my daughter. She
smells of lemons on a soft moonlit
night. I open the refrigerator door.

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Notes

This was originally a short story that I changed into a story-poem. It is about the parent-child relationship from the parent's perspective. Good parents worry about their children and what the future holds for them. Parents wish they could always protect their children from the pain and sorrow they will face, but they know they can’t. The child must make her way in the world.

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