Stretch Marks and Ash

by Kaylee Lowe

The summer before college
my mother invited me to her house for tea,
but I know she only drinks whiskey.
Sliding down the narrow driveway,
my stomach spinning
it’s not about tea,
I turn my key in the doorknob,
almost surprised it still fits.
I call her name.
I haven’t said “mom” since the day I left.
No response echoes back,
but I know where she’ll be.
I step onto the back porch
and there’s the cigarette,
circling fumes escaping its head.
nothing has changed
My eyes travel down.
Her growing belly,
stretching out from her blouse,
contrasting her slim frame.
“She’s the size of an avocado”
I watch the ring of smoke.
“I’m due in February”
It dances around the porch light.
“She’s named after your grandmother”
Her eyes flicker for response
All I find is the cigarette,
she draws another breath.