My mother always said, “Keep the home-
fires burning,” a turn of phrase tossed
over her shoulder as she walked out the door,
to remind us—my brothers and sisters and I—
to take care of the house in her absence.
Those were the days when we were contained
within the same red brick walls. Back then,
I plotted how to burn it all down, even
though brick is notoriously impervious
to flame. Still, I did my best incendiary act—
a one-act play with multiple improvisations.
The Meryl Streep of the family, the actress
willing to take on the most challenging roles.
Tragic child, an A-student unjustly ignored
by her parents, accident-prone pratfall child
who earned more stitches than the AIDS quilt, hyper-
polite shy one struck dumb before the 1+1
math equation in front of the first-grade class, earning
a slap across the face by an eraser-wielding nun.
You get the idea. Gradually, I graduated to major
parts: creating a body double in my bed with stuffed
animals to sneak out of the house at night, “Sailing
the Seven Seas” of risky Seagrams whiskey shots
with the guys, crashing my mother’s Valiant
into a barn on the shoulder of the back road
to Green Lakes. Sure, I lost things—my spleen,
a lobe of my liver, my self-respect. But I showed
my mother. How I let the home fires smolder
into coals and moved out of state as soon
as I was able. All these years later, amends made,
all I want is to return home, be with my mother
and my brothers and sisters. Reignite
the flames with a blast from some bellows.