It is the time that I am a bride. It is also the time that I am taking care of my mother. I am still taking care of the delicate treasure that is in my mother …but I am also taking care of my mother. It’s after dinner in the Spring. We are planting tomatoes in the garden. The light is fading. The air still feels of late Spring, but the promise of Summer is in the air. I am angry about the way my mother is planting the tomatoes. There is no reason for me to be angry. I only think I am angry about how she is planting the tomatoes. I am angry, in fact, because I want to be a bride for a little. I want to put on a pretty apron …comb my hair and put lipstick on to cook silly recipes from popular magazines and eat them by candlelight gazing into my husband’s eyes. I want this for a little bit, but I am a bride and I am taking care of my mother. She props herself onto the hoe …the tomato plant sits in the bare hole …the water from the dented sprinkling can now as old as I sinks into the soft, black ground. Her look penetrates me. I know that look. It is her look for my father. She says nothing. She just goes back to planting the tomatoes.

I return to the house. It is dark.
It has been too early for lights.
I look into the dark mirror.
I am my father.

I do not like that I have taken up my father’s role. I do not like that I have been angry with my mother. I take out the chipped soup pot. I clean carrots, onions and celery in the dark …I wash the chicken and put it all into the soup pot. I make the same soup for tomorrow I have made since I was a child.

I wear no pretty apron.

I do not comb my hair.

I do not put on lipstick.

I will not say I am sorry …

… at least not then…

 …sorry will come years later.