Featured Poet: December 2009 Vol. 2 #2
Angela Brazeal
Angela Brazeal grew up in
The Circle of Life
My mom is the recipient of grocery lists and
dirty looks from my grandma, who has,
since 1986, lived in my mom and dad’s house.
She is eighty-eight years old and can no longer
drive herself to Thousand Oaks Baptist church, or
to Sensational Hair (for a weekly wash and set), or
the Dollar Store (where she buys greeting cards),
or to the grocery (to replenish her supply of cashews).
When she hitches a ride with my mom, she
voices her discontent for various offenses:
chili that was too spicy, clothes left in the washing
machine on her washing day, or a phone call missed
when the line was tied up. My mom first sits
in silence, eventually yelling back until
they scrapple like a mom and teenage daughter.
When grandma scolds mom, across the
kitchen table, for buying the wrong brand of Gas-X,
my dad and I hardly stifle our laughter, until
finally the snarls are directed at us.
The Basics
Before I could begin school at Woerther
Elementary, my mom insisted I learn several
basic skills. I must remember to always
put paper on the toilet seat, never holler
“I’m finished” from the bathroom and wait
for my teacher to help, and most important:
I must be able to spell my whole name.
Just “A-N-G,” like my dad taught me,
would not hold up in big kid school.
After the trials of learning to spell the whole
thing, writing my Z in the right direction,
and leaving accidental pieces of forgotten
toilet paper on the all three toilet seats
in our house, I was ready. When I arrived
at school, my teacher called me “Angie,”
which I couldn’t spell. I went to the
bathroom to cry, and in my hysteria, forgot
to put paper down on the seat, and I knew
better than to holler for help.