I remember the smell and feel
\nof that pink bathrobe better than
\nthe faces of friends I\u2019ve lost. Pilled
\npolyester. The seams scratched, plastic
\nfishing line sewn in melted after
\ndecades in a gas dryer. <\/p>\n
I wanted it willed to me. <\/p>\n
I can see it sitting, propped in
\nthe recliner in memories where I cannot
\neven see my mother. <\/p>\n
Brink pink. <\/p>\n
She called it her Pink Panther bathrobe,
\nswinging the tie like a tail. Thick cuffs
\npushed back to show thick forearms,
\nher hands stronger than any man\u2019s
\nI\u2019d ever seen. <\/p>\n
It must have been plush once, to have
\nbeen pulled off the rack. <\/p>\n
I can see the matted sleeves more clearly
\nthan my son\u2019s infant face. <\/p>\n
She wore it every morning and every night.
\nIf I was sick or sad, I could wear it, a pink
\naura to prove I mattered. It dragged
\nthe floor until I was nine. <\/p>\n
She only wore it sober. <\/p>\n
She was as gentle as the robe hoped
\nit could be while she wore it. She sang
\nsongs and read books and did silly
\nvoices. She made soup for fevers
\nand warmed milk for sleepless nights.
\nShe held me and rocked me, my face
\nburied in pink, smells of cheap cigarettes
\nand mint chewing gum and Obsession. <\/p>\n
I wanted it willed to me. <\/p>\n
When it hung in the closet, the dice
\nwere rolled. Our trailer became the setting
\nfor violent mad libs come to life,
\nfueled by Natural Light. Whole years
\nit hung in the dark. No stories. No songs
\nexcept to tell me \u201cdon\u2019t cry out loud.\u201d
\nNo soup or warm milk or comfort. <\/p>\n
I bore witness to the absence of that robe. <\/p>\n
We sat silent and apart and mourned
\nmy mother, each of us, robe and child,
\nhoping she would wake and walk
\ninto the kitchen, glowing, mantled in pink,
\na beacon of calm and safety and love. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I remember the smell and feel of that pink bathrobe better than the faces of friends I\u2019ve lost. Pilled polyester. The seams scratched, plastic fishing line sewn in melted after decades in a gas dryer. I wanted it willed to me. I can see it…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1119,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-98632","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-marathon-poem"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/98632","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1119"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=98632"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/98632\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":98633,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/98632\/revisions\/98633"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=98632"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=98632"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=98632"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}