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The Flowers by Dagoberto Gilb A 2008 San Francisco Chronicle Best Book of the Year ISBN: 0-8021-4402-0 / ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-4402-7 US $14.00 - 5 1/2 x 8 1/4, 272 pp - Feb. 2009 |
My mom was dressed too pretty to take serious, shampoo in her hair and body lotion smell, and she was trying too hard to sound happy. Nobody’d believe her except her.
“It’ll be good living here. I won’t have to work, so I’ll even get to cook for you.”
That made me smile because it was almost funny to imagine.
“I can cook too! Don’t laugh at me!”
Sometimes she’d cooked at home. She made enchiladas and tacos fast. What I loved was this meal made with noodles and beef and green chile and cheese and canned creamed corn. She would make one or the other of them for birthdays. Although she usually bought our food someplace. I couldn’t imagine her in the kitchen more than like once a month. First off, she didn’t have the clothes for it. She’d have to buy special clothes. Second, moms who cooked were fat and slobby. And third, they wore their hair like for being home, for vacuuming and watching daytime TV. She never even watched TV. She wasn’t fat, and it seemed like she was always going to a beauty parlor to try a new hairstyle, which everyone complimented her on because it would like “fit her face so well”—what she’d say the girls said—no matter what style, and she had to wear lots of shining jewelry. Nobody cooked meals wearing hoop earrings and silver bracelets.
She came over and sat next to me on the bed, putting her arm around me like she might make out with me. “Todavia you’re my baby boy, you know, and now I’m going to get to be a mother for you. I know I haven’t been. I haven’t had any time for you, have I?”
I shrugged.
“I’m so sorry, m’ijito. I really am.”