June 16, 2022
Five Days in April
(I Hear My Mother’s Voice)
by Mary Foulk
Monday
Torrential rain and wind. I wait again, drinking
chardonnay in the dark dining room. The ceiling
needs repainting. Flakes chip and fall. Mary will be
home from college in a few days. He is late, at his
Club. I am surrounded by blue canton from our
wedding, now covered in thin blankets of dust,
traces of my fingerprints. I remind myself I had
wanted this life.
Tuesday
A package arrives, the address and handwriting
unfamiliar. I carefully examine its contents. Sepia-
toned photographs in small, gilded frames. It is
Ken, and we are dancing. I hold a lit cigarette in my
hand, and our eyes are consumed. We are laughing,
so young and handsome. The texture of his plaid
blazer, his shaven cheek on mine. He was the one
my parents refused. There is a note from his widow,
tight script from a strained hand. The pictures were
tucked between sweaters in his wardrobe. I admire
the tenderness of his obituary. Sounds of water
distract me. I must have knelt for hours. The basement
shows strains of downpour, concrete’s
sweat.
Wednesday
Despite every effort, I am still tear-streaked and
worn when Mary arrives. I feign a smile, a kiss. She
has her father’s blue eyes and pronounced chin, his
tense silence. She asks why I am sad, a repeated
refrain. I feel the wet from my wool cardigan, the
one in the photographs, threadbare at the elbows
and collar line. I lost the love of my life, I tell her.
She stares at me and continues eating. After, she
withdraws to her room.
Thursday
What will you do? The question hangs between us
for hours. She will leave soon to visit her girlfriend,
whom I’ve never met. The clouds are clearing and
we should go outside—enjoy a walk, the
movement, new air.
Friday
In the night, I hide the package at the back of my
closet, behind overlooked dresses and forgotten
lingerie. I touch the silk gently, repeatedly, and
remember Ken’s weight on mine. At dawn, I make
strong coffee and hug Mary tightly. We whisper,
Don’t worry.