Mother, in the midday sun, smelled of Big Red and Red Door and dyed her crown box red; splattered with freckles and five feet tall, cheeks dented with a gentle nature belying bonfire smoke.
Mother, standing in the rays with pollen dusting her, smelled of Sun-In and coconut suntan, hair turning from auburn to candle flame; a panoply of bikinis from the laundry basket rotated daily, an eternal youth and distilled confidence woven into their fibers.
Mother, lounging on the porch swing with tanned legs overlapped, smelled of White Diamond and yard work sweat, a fading red ponytail twisted into a clip; a bird-watching book rested against her jewel-pierced belly, sleep-ridden eyes turned towards an anticipatory sky.
Mother, in the dull present air, smells of detergent and sweet candy wax melts, red hair freshly coated and carefully barrel-curled; brown eyes sparkle beneath the thick glass, blown wide and doll-like with intelligent distortion.
Hear Erica Kitch read her piece.
Erica Kitch is a writer with a B.A. from W.V.S.U. and an odd energy from her collection of porcelain clowns. She works as a library assistant observing the wealth of human expression. You can find her at https://ericakitch.substack.com/ musing about the starving artist archetype and Sprite Ginger Zero Sugar.