Poetry By
Fred Longworth
Published on: 10/18/2007
Downtown San Diego, 1953
Sometimes it was Marston's, sometimes Huneck's, sometimes Walker-Scott's. But always, Mother shopped in Better Women's Clothing, nostrils and a bridge above Sears or J.C. Penney. She did this ten or twenty Saturdays a month - or so it seemed to a six-year-old. And I was certain she wanted to change me into a girl through sheer cross-exposure. On one expedition, as she dragged me on the tethers of her tongue like a reluctant housepet, another mother walked by, cheaply dressed, pushing a stroller with an infant. Two boys followed, side by side, laughing. Mother flashed me a look she was too polite to give the woman - my lesson for the day in social class. Envious, I posed an only-child's wish. She glanced away as she replied, as if the answer could only cross between us through a narrow passageway of sound. She said that giving birth to one child had nearly killed her.
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