Mummy’s Little
“Don’t touch my box,’’
the mother said crossly .
“I just want to see it
again,” the little girl said,
stretching her rather dirty,
rounded
fingers
up
towards
her mother’s
dressing table.
“I’ve told you over and
over again that it’s very
old and I don’t want you
to break it.”
“Just play the music,
please, Mummy,” the lit
tle girl said.
With a rather desperate
sigh, the mother wound
the box, lifted the lid, and
let the gay tune tinkle out
in the air. Perhaps it
would keep the child quiet
so she could finish getting
ready to go out.
The little girl listened for
a moment to the much
loved tune, then began
her little dance around her
mother’s room. As she
whirled
slowly,
the
familiar things that spelled
Mummy
seemed
to
disappear. The bed with
its satin coverlet piled high
with lace pillows, the
divan in the corner where
Mummy read .sometimes
in the afternoon, her
bright, blonde hair spread
out on the gay silk pillows,
the
perfume
bottles,
sparkling and gleaming ori
the dressing table: all the
sights and smells of
Mummy.
'
She was in another
world, the little girl, an
enchanted garden where
Mummy
laughed
her
tinkling laugh and danced
with the big man. The lit-;
tie girl always thought her
Mummy’s eyes looked
like two bright blue lights
on thé Christmas tree
then.
The
little
girl
remembered the big man,
although she had only
seen him once or twice.
She didn’t like him. He
seemed too big, too loud,
too. noisy. He looked at
her with such cold eyes,
and only' seemed to be
around when Daddy was
gone and Mummy had
one of her parties.
The little girl whirled
and whirled, pretending
her plain cotton dress was
one of Mummy’s beautiful
dress-up
gowns.
She
always thought Mummy
looked just like an angel
then, when she was
dressed in her velvets, or
satins, or laces. Her blon
de cUrls were like a golden
crown, almost brighter
than the jewels that
glowed around her throat.
The
little
girl
could
remember when Daddy
had given some of the
jewels to Mummy, and
how excited she had been
when she had opened the
gaily wrapped boxes. The
little girl didn’t know just
è
Mary Cuddy]
when Mummy had gotten
the little music box, but it
seemed to have; appeared
one day after ie big man
had been there.-Mummy
seemed very fond of it.
I wonder when Daddy
will be back this tirne,- the
little girl thought. When
he’s gone, Mummy hardly
ever stays home, and I
really don’t like ole’ Mrs.
Warren here. She’s so
bossy.
Suddenly the door to
Mummy’s room burst
open, and Daddy stood
there. He looked very tall
and very stern, just like he
did when he was going to
scold the little girl. She
knew Mummy and Daddy
were going to start yelling
at one another again,
saying many words she
poet’s corner
The Keeper
Lighthouse blinks
nearer nearer nearer
Foot-prints sink into water-tide patterns
Mist gathers on fly-away hair
Pockets welcome cold hands
as
Confederate fog blankets the beach
Lighthouse blinks
home home horrié
-Barbara Kellog
didnt understand. Still
the little girl could feel the
hate and. jealousy that
raged about them.
She kept whirling as the
box finished its tune,
trying to shut out the
sound of. their loud
voices. They’ll stop in a
minute, she thought, and
then Daddy will pick me
up and give me a big hug.
She-peeked at them
once, quickly. Daddy was
shaking , Mummy, her
blonde curls tumbling
around her shoulders.
The little girl looked away
as she saw one of Daddy’s
big arms come swinging
up, his huge fist doubled
up . . .
A
crash
echoed
through the room; the
music stopped abruptly.
girl ; was pic«
lip in her Daddy’s big ]
ms, and he spun her aul
through the door. But ■
before she had si
Mummy,,
her bril
blonde hair stained I
what
/¿looked
I
strawberry jam, her ha
open eyes looking I
cold blue marbles, lyl
on the floor.
All her perfume botffl
were in a shattered mass
cosmetics and powl
spilled over all. Besl
Mummy lay her little n
her treasure, broken i|t
tiny fragments. It loofl
like a giant with angry p
had stomped on it agai
and again.
vMummy,” said them
tie girl.
Sequestration
Keep on keeping on rain
mist over hulking tenaments
as barrel fires burn in vacant lots
for junkie’s cold veins
hollow windows follow prostitute’s gain ’n’ hustle
Rain
mist over pigeon coop
child’s wing of. roof-top refuge
coos muted in bongos throb
from the street
Rain
mist'over beggar
robbed of sight and tin-cdp
his torment reaching deaf-ears
asfpot^fllssplash through puddles debris
Rain
mist over huddled fetal shapes
on damp stair-wells
shattered wirio bottles
glisten neon blue ■
Keep on keeping on
-Barbara Kellogg
t
page 12
clackamas quarterly /eview