She taught bezoar was a salvation and that Ms. Ellis would never be rid of boils because of the stress in her life. To brew salvant for her often and to tie neat ribbons around the neck because it made Ms. Ellis feel special and she'll be sure to tip. My Mother was quiet but her mind was a car backfiring on a country road.
When we did not have water because father friveled away the bill money at the bar or a lady in an alley (sometimes both) she showed me how to clean clothes in the river with dish soap against the stones. My Mother kept her school books in the attic tied with twine buried under her tattered wedding dress and what once was my baby but like all in that house were just memories in the form of dust.
I was thankful Father was rarely home because Mother and I would collect cans along the highway for hours.(Just for my lunch money or if she needed more to eat herself.) Sometimes she take me to cultivate her herbs behind the park and across from the cemetery. She was patient in their naming for they were vital in brewing and she desperately wanted me to learn to concoct decently.
On days we traveled to the thrift store I found truth that black lasted longer. If stained it wasn't too evident and as most of the brightly colored clothes were larger or meant for grannies it became a custom. Dark sweaters and militant boots with scruffed laces while Mother fished out the cheapest spools of ribbons or sets of cups when Father smashed them all.(Again.) She showed me how to pick out the best thrift store containers to contain our medicines that we sold. (Small bowls with lids like sugar bowls or discarded chemistry set tubes that we could re-use the corks from Dad's bottles.) These were life lessons for the "muggle-born" as she called it.
I had skipped the majority of the last week of school but the day before last. Father got fired from his most recent venture. Glass was thrown while my Mother thrust me out our battered door. Her aging bruises stark against the new cuts on her cheek (and I knew her brilliance would be gone when I got home). Their voices muffled yet so loud the concrete felt as if it shook. I heard my Mother's dishes cherished no more (while he pounded another six pack I'm sure). It lasted for as long as memory can stand then I laid in the bushes because the screams were seeping in too close to my heart. If I am distant. If I think this in a way that isn't too personal. (Maybe I won't be so vulnerable.)