The Maestra

Like a demented maestra, she orchestrated the household.  Her dresses, made by her own arthritic hands, were worn at the belly from years of wiping and toiling.  Pockets were weighed down by More cigarettes, tissues, cough drops and bobby pins.  Coughing fits, generated by inhaling toxins and exacerbated by fierce yelling, were commonplace.  Her ashes would grow longer as her cigarette hovered between her lips, saliva keeping it glued on while she scolded us.  As she walked by the squish squish of her square orthopedic shoes made me hold my breath, hoping that I wouldn’t be the next victim.  The air as she she passed smelled of smoke, loss and broken dreams.  Complaints never ceased; she was exhausted, underappreciated and worn out.  After all, holding hostages was no easy task.

She was dogma.

She was enigma.

She was Grandma.

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