Mom asks Mother Mary, The Undoer of Knots, who never refuses to come to the aid of a child in need, for help, as she struggles with a never-ending task list of four daughters.  Out of necessity, for survival, she adds more to her plate to put food on the table as she works the night shift at Machlett’s x-ray tube assembly line.

“Dear Mother of God, I beg you, send guardian angels to watch over my four girls tonight,” said Mom.  She whispers a prayer over my head and covers Maria, who sleeps next to me in our twin bed, with another blanket.

“Do you have to go, Mom?”  My eyes are closed, yet I’m still awake, worried that she’s leaving me, scared to say so.  The kitchen light whispers into the bedroom so I can see her in the sleepy darkness.  She’s dressed to go to work, in brown slacks and a flowery blouse, pink lipstick smooth on lips, a small blossom of luxury.

“You’re still awake?  Shh…you’ll wake your sisters.  Go to sleep,” said Mom.

“Do you have to go, Mom?  Where’s Daddy?”  I can’t sleep until I get answers.

“I have to work to put food on the table, Jeanne.  We don’t have any money.  I hope to hell your father doesn’t come to my work, like he did last week.  He barged into the manager’s office and called my name over the intercom.  I was so embarrassed by that drunk bastard.  I’m gonna’ have to quit that job.”  Mom whispers more to herself than to me and I don’t feel any better by her answer.

“Don’t worry.  Go to sleep.  Daddy’s not home,” said Mom.  She goes to the other side of the room where my other two sisters share another twin bed, picks up a soft toy dog from the floor, and places it in the crook of sleeping Barb’s arm.  She touches sleeping Donna’s cheek, goes out of the room, and closes the door.

I tumble into teary sleep, wonder why Daddy’s not home again, why he can’t make any money, and why Mom has to leave us alone.  I wonder if I’ll be able to sleep through the night, or wake to my parents in a scary, screaming fight.  Or, wake and seek a guardian angel to rescue me from suffocating with an imaginary knot in my throat.

Here’s a bit from a story that I’m working on now:

In its’ corner in the backyard, the clothesline pole, edged by bushes, is imprisoned by a metal chain-link fence that separates us from neighbors.  The fence, like the 38th  Parallel between North and South Korea, is a divider between enemies with much in common.  An army-green board railing tops the tall fence, which runs around most of the yard.  A hedge separates us from the Irish Bohannon family on the other side.  There’s an opening in the hedge, with thick, crushed branches and leaves aside, a way for us to enter their yard.  Mr. Bohannon tells Mom that he has barbershop skills and since she doesn’t have much money, lets him cut my hair.  I sit on a stepstool in his yard, he puts a bowl on my head, and scissors around the rim, clips of brown locks cut to the grass.  We frequent the Bohannon’s Irish bar and grill, down on Myrtle Avenue, where we eat pizza, our quarters click-clack, roll into a jukebox to let love me do escape, as Daddy drinks whiskey at the bar.