crying glitter and drinking stars

mother

my mother ties a blue apron around her shrinking waist. one day, she will fit in a straw.
she kisses all of us, individually, and closes the ripping screen door behind her.
she runs in sneakers, hoping to catch the bus.
i run soon, after her. trying to catch my own school bus. my lunch bag is heavy.
i saw her packing it early this morning, i saw her cry.
i saw her pull at her old wedding ring. she made egg sandwiches.
my friends greet me in school, i can't help but worry that my siblings made it to their school buses.
my mother hammers me at a constant about doing my school work.
i tap my pencil. i wonder why i don't have pretty shoes like the girl next to me.
i look at my shoes and the brown leather peels back the bark on an old, wise tree.
they were once my mothers. the shoes that she waitressed in. squeaked on the same floor she is squeaking on today.
i take the city bus to visit her.
i find her gliding on the floor, from table to table.
a man yells at her. he tells her that his order is wrong and that his day is ruined. he slaps his napkin down, pushes a glass off the edge, and leaves.
my mother cries. she picks up the broken pieces, like she always does.
before she can notice me, and before i burst a gasket, i slip out the door.
she comes home, ten o'clock.
she's tired.
she kisses my forehead and says she's happy i did my homework.
she pulls out the vacuum cleaner, she sprays windex and cleans the messes my siblings made.
she tucks us in good-night.
i hear her lamp flick on and the pages of a book flutter. she yawns.
i sneak into the kitchen and make two egg sandwiches.