Did you ever smell the dirt of this Dear, Sweet, Earth, and lay on the ground, with your nose in the grass, your eyes taking in the texture of the dirt, and the soft, baby-green grass leaves that sprout up through it? Did you ever watch an ant carry a cookie crumb that crumbled off an anisette cookie, to its ant hill that looks just like the brown coffee grinds that Mom, Aunt LaLa, or Nanny threw in the garden compost this morning?

“Go outside and watch Uncle Pippi work in the garden. Stay outside!” Mom calls the order of the day, which is the same thing every day, her shouting voice pushes my sisters and me to the yard.

“I feel like gettin’ on a fuckin’ plane!” Mom shoves a dangling, black bobby pin into her hair with a hard thrust as she shuts the door. She escapes the doldrums, the anxiety, the stress of raising four girls on her own by using the safety-net of her parents’ home. Her words slam a sick, hard thud to my stomach.

“She can’t pull the wool over my eyes. What a bullshitter!” I hear snippets through the open kitchen window. I don’t understand the terse, hard undertone of Mom’s conversations with Aunt LaLa, which are not meant for my ears. I think they’re stupid anyhow, and wonder why some of her sisters don’t speak to a cousin, or, wonder why they talk endlessly over how much money one has, who owns what, who slept with who, who wishes for what, who marries who, who loves who, who screws who. Who cares?

Outside we stay, her message obeyed, because if not, God forbid!

I lay at the top of the hill in Nanny’s front yard, my young girl’s body stretches out, knees bent, slowly swing my red, white, or blue, Keds-covered feet lazily in the spring air. The simple, brick house sits like a queen on her throne, overlooking the street, the driveway, the neighbors’ houses, and the garden. My childhood time is spent watching. Watching the seasons of nature and people grow, change, live, die, around me. Watching Uncle Pippi.

Firm, child chest, ribs tight against the ground, green grass stains scratched onto my yellow tee-shirt, pressing elbows to the dirt until they ache. Big, brown eyes, long eyelashes curl down, sweet face hidden by long, loose, brown hair, I study the ants, inspect a dark, pine tree that is a good hiding spot in a game of hide-and-seek, and study a green, coiled hose snaking along the stone foundation of the house, water slowly leaking out of the copper-rimmed nozzle, shiny in the circular grooves. Study the weathered split rails of the garden fence that splinters if I pull at a loose piece to poke in the dirt or toss in the air. Watch Uncle Pippi till the soil, drawing in the healing power of gardening. His quiet ways, quiet work, the quiet sanctuary of the yard, is a peacetime.

Eventually, Mom listens to our grumbles to use the bathroom, get a drink of water, or get a lunch of fried peppers and eggs on a chunk of Italian bread. Sitting on the back porch, with a sandwich wrapped in a paper napkin, I study the clothesline of a metal pole with empty, limp, white ropes that hang sadly, or ropes proud and tight, full with wooden clothespin soldiers clipping gray pants, faded, ocean-blue, plaid workshirts, and pink, bed sheets that bow out, curtseying to the wind, as if in a show, waiting for my quiet praise and applause.

Note: In 1960, just 5 million children under 18 lived with only their mother. By 1980, that number had more than doubled. Today, 19 million children live in single-mother families, up from 17 million in 2000.