Abstract

My mother likes to tell me why she's famous. Usually it's late on some weekend night, after drinks at The Lasso, when she comes home fumbling with her keys, pressing her weight against our trailer's plastic door, falling into our little home I've made warm and snug for her, and I'll hand her the green tea I've had steeping for an hour, keeping it warm with shots from the microwave, until it's brown and thick. She plops down on that plush chair that's older than me, and she points to the faded poster of David Lee Roth, that first guy to headline and sing for Van Halen, which she's hung on the wall above our television, and she goes on about her days as a groupie. I always curl myself into the corner of our couch, the end closest to her, and cup my own tea and listen to her wild tales about what she did when she was a younger, happier woman.

Document Type

Article

Source Publication

Chariton Review

Version

Published Version

Publication Date

2016

Volume

39

Issue

2

First Page

10

Last Page

18

Rights

Notice: This material may be protected by copyright law (Title 17 U.S. Code).

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