From No Work to Working Class
Last night Majestic got a job. They’ll be supporting us both on a barista’s income but we still ate like the new money queens we are in celebration. We walked cautiously through the fancy independent market in town like we knew we were intruders in this oasis for comfortable living, stealthily glancing around for sales and then pretending we wanted that instead of the full priced treat next to it. We dodged another bullet this month and our class backgrounds stains us like crushed blackberries.
The thing about moms like mine is that she’ll always haunt me closer than my own shadow. Maybe that’s just what its like to be a daughter of a single mother growing older and making your own family. Maybe it’s just because Sybil’s always meant to cling this way. Every couple of months I’ll feel her stronger than usual and think to myself, “she’s finally died and she’s here to tell me.” But she’s not dead, she’s just reminding me that it’ll never really matter after all she’s done to me.
I feel her in the way my body aches as I stood over the sink in my cotton leggings and ripped up Garfield shirt the same way I’d seen her do. My sight failed me as I watched our dry hands pulling the sponge across my thrifted measuring cups last night. Don’t waste the water, don’t waste the soap, don’t get too confident that next paycheck will show up.
The smell of cinnamon rolls puffing up in the oven carries me back to me and mine. Majestic and I had been curled up together when they made a passing comment about cinnamon rolls. I looked over and with the laptop light glowing on their face, I could see the joy wash over them when I said, “You want cinnamon rolls? I’ll make you cinnamon rolls.” We took our love and warmth from the room to the kitchen and I couldn’t feel my tired body as I cut real full fat butter into the flour and played a fan made Phil Collins video. This isn’t my mother’s working class love, this was mine.
She did this in her own way and I watched the resent and bitterness drip off her like tar and the sick smell of it still lingered around me as a reminder. I always hated her for staring across all our apartments and seeing stains where I saw life and another opportunity to make her happy with what we had.
You’ve made me a palace in this mismatched, thrifted, gifted and worn through apartment Majestic. May I never know a night where I’m not nestled against your warm fat body under our mountain of previously used comforters kissing sugar frosting off your lips
