White Walls
By Julie de Oliveira
My mother looks beautiful
As she wipes down long
lengths of
Cold marble with glass
cleaner.
She smiles as she dusts
underneath
Picture frames of
sunburnt,
Blue-eyed, blond-haired
children
Building sandcastles a
thousand summers ago.
She knows this house so
well,
She knows exactly where
to cross
On its creaky waxed
wooden floors
As not to make a sound as
she steps,
The only sound is the
swish of her mop.
She scrubs the insides of
their oven
With her dry cracked
hands
On her feeble God-fearing
knees
As I do their dishes.
Making sure to speak
In our native tongue,
She tells me what she
would’ve done differently;
Peach walls, not
eggshell;
Suede, not Italian.
Cristo and the last
supper and
Arroz efeijão, not mac ’n’ cheese.
The constant in and out
of our family,
Neighbors, and people
we’ve never met
But welcome with open
hearts anyway
Because we understand the
lonely,
A cold bed, and a foreign
country.
Less space on white
walls; more family.
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