by John Weagly
Mama’s soul is in them kitchen curtains.
Stackin’ dishes in the sink, Mama plopped over dead. She managed to reach up and grasp the curtains as she fell.
I believe her soul went into those thin yellow pieces of cloth.
I lived with her all my life. I never married, just stayed at home. Men didn’t seem to want me. Not pretty enough, I guess. Livin’ with her, I knew how she was. That’s why I understand about her spirit and her choice of eternal resting place.
She always loved curtains, or as she called ‘em, drapes. To me a drape goes from ceiling to floor, but Mama used that word to describe any fabric hangin’ in a window. She’d buy new ones whenever we could afford to, which wasn’t often. “New drapes make the house look fresh,” she’d say.
Now she’s restin’ in them.
People came over after her funeral. They saw the kitchen window and said, “You ought to fix those, Diane. Hangin’ that way, you’ll get bad memories.” They don’t get that Mama put the drapes like that, crooked and all, it’s the last thing she ever did. I want to leave them that way for just a little bit longer.
It’s cold now, frost on the ground in the morning. When warm weather gets here, I’ll re-hang Mama’s drapes. Then I’ll be able to open the kitchen window and let those pieces of fabric and soul flow in the breeze.
I expect she’ll like that.