Aunt Mary

Twice a year we went to Aunt Mary’s house

in Burlingame for tea.

My sister and I wore matching dresses

ordered through The New Yorker.

With faces and fingernails scrubbed clean

bangs inspected and freshly cut

we drove in silence

while Mama filed her short white nails

while they drilled us on our manners

on what we should and should not say.

Aunt Mary greeted us

in her long black dress.

her hair, a white – gold knot

primly tied atop her head

would softly blend with jasmine cheeks

pale and white

cheeks so cold and properly lined.

Her tone and smiles

were most appropriate

for civilized conversation

on this Sunday afternoon.

Aunt Mary poured English tea

from a silver pot

offering two bright white sugar cubes

a slice of lemon

english biscuits.

Royal crystal goblets

resting in their stately

pose behind glass doors

would glisten in the light of

amber sun rays slithering like

a golden serpent

through overgrown branches

of dark old trees.

My eyes would trace timeless patterns

on a proud, aging Persian rug

handwoven by naked children of

olive colored skin

while Aunt Mary discussed Harry Truman

and Franklin Roosevelt,

Eisenhower.

And my father

how he hoped he impressed

and didn’t offend.

How quietly desperate he was.

And so on our way back home

we stopped at Ledger’s Liquor Store

to buy a pint of whiskey

their reward for impressions given of

sanity and moral stability and

after all, our visit was a success.

Then we drank to our ancestors

demanding blessings of all our deserving dreams

and when it was time to sleep

he read to me fairy tales

with watery eyes

and whiskied breath

twinkling, weary, tear eyes wet with fear

and shame for a daughter’s childhood lost.