Fabric warmed by the iron, her fingers work it into neat folds.
In the other room she hears her father chortle, To the moon Alice.
And she imagines him ribbing her brother as they sit side-by-side,
their feet tossed onto the ottoman or table.
The dishes clink in the kitchen sink and water splashes
Mother's yellow, rubber-covered hands scrubbing away the remnants of dinner.
She thinks that she might like to watch television too…
When the laundry is neat in its basket, Mother has finished the dishes.
She slips into the kitchen, her hand trailing over the doorframe,
and she waits for permission to be excused.
Mother looks up from her spot at the kitchen table
where she is pretending not to be eating apple pie from the baking pan.
Mother nods at the two plates of dessert on the table and she obeys the silent command.
Retrieving them, she carries them through into the living room
where the program has changed.
She delivers the plates to the man and boy who do not spare her a glance,
and then ducks back into the kitchen where Mother has left her a small helping on the counter.
Taking a seat next to Mother, who is still pretending not to like pie,
she is self-conscious under the weight of the older woman's gaze.
You may do the remaining dishes when they're through.
As though she should be honoured.
A woman's work is never done.
Mother opens her cigarette purse and lights the tip of a Virginia Slim, her eyes turning to the window where she frowns at the rain sprinkling against the glass.
The rain will destroy my begonias, she sighs. Look at it.
Mother waits until her eyes turn to watch the streams of water, weeping until they collect as puddles on the pane.
It's a disaster out there.
Her eyes shift and she catches her own reflection in the window: the kitchen, the laundry room door ajar, Mother absent-mindedly picked up crumbs with her fingertips.