Read The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus for Free Online

ear plugs,
    put on my Bose headset,
    and make some real progress—
    in spite of Madison’s screaming,
    Pinkie’s yapping, Jane’s trumpeting,
    and Duncan’s thundering drums.
    But then Samantha
    invited me to help her bake
    some butterscotch brownies.
    She said she wanted
    to fill the freezer with them
    before she leaves for college.
    â€œThat way,” she explained, “When I’m away
    at school, you can defrost a batch every week
    and mail them to Grandma for me.”
    I was planning
    on spending the whole day
    writing dozens of brilliant poems.
    But I spent the day
    with my daughter, instead,
    baking dozens of brilliant brownies.

AFTERMATH
    The kitchen’s
    a sugary,
    floury,
    butterscotchy mess.
    But just as we begin to scour it,
    Wendy, Tess, and Laura arrive
    to whisk Sam away
    for one last girls’ night out.
    â€œCan you give me a few minutes?” she says.
    â€œI’ve got to help my mom clean up.”
    â€œWe’ll help, too!” Tess says.
    â€œWe will?” Wendy says.
    Laura gives Wendy
    a swift kick in the shin.
    â€œWe will!” Wendy says,
    and everyone cracks up.
    Then, the four of them set to work
    like whirling kitchen dervishes,
    refusing to let me
    lift a finger.
    I clutch Secret to my chest,
    as I listen to their familiar chatter
    filling up my kitchen like sunlight
    one last time…
    And when the room is spotless,
    the girls wolf down some brownies,
    hug me good-bye, and zip out of the house,
    leaving in their wake
    a terrible silence.

I CLOSE THE DOOR BEHIND THEM
    Then I turn and lean against it,
    stroking Secret’s fuzzy head.
    I glance out the window
    at our pepper tree
    and see a handful of ashen leaves
    plummet to their deaths.
    I look past our roses
    and see Madison riding her tricycle.
    My nose
    begins to sting—
    the way it always does
    right before I start to cry.
    But I force back
    the flood,
    afraid that if I let
    a single tear fall
    it will unleash
    a storm
    bigger
    than Katrina.

REMEMBERING THE DAY SAMANTHA LEARNED TO RIDE
    My suddenly six-year-old daughter
    hopped onto her brand-new popsicle-pink bicycle
    with an I-can- do -this-thing gleam in her eyes
    and began peddling across the empty school yard.
    I trotted along next to her
    like an out-of-breath sidecar,
    one hand gripping
    the back of her seat,
    the other hand
    holding fast to the handlebar,
    making sure she didn’t tip too far
    in either direction.
    â€œThat’s it…
    You’re doing great…Keep it up…
    Don’t worry…I’ve got you…
    I’ve got you…”
    Her fingers
    white-knuckling the handle grips,
    her jaw set,
    she wobbled, wavered, swerved, swayed
    and then, without warning,
    broke free of my grasp and shoved off,
    picking up speed faster
    than a jet roaring down a runway.
    I stood there, stunned, watching my daughter
    blaze away from me like a meteor,
    her white helmet glinting in the sun,
    her back tense and proud.
    And a moment later, when she cast
    a quick glance back over her shoulder at me,
    I saw that her grin was even wider
    than the gulf that was opening up
    between us…

I TAKE A FEW DEEP BREATHS
    Then I sit down at the kitchen table,
    plop Secret into my lap,
    and pick up the phone to call Alice.
    Maybe listening
    to all the gory details
    of her latest Match.com misadventures
    will keep me
    from having to think
    about my own problems…
    When I’m halfway through dialing,
    I realize that I’m calling my mother’s
    cell phone by mistake.
    But I finish punching in the number,
    hoping that I’ll catch her
    in a rare moment of lucidity.
    I’m not even really sure
    what I want to talk to her about.
    I guess I just want to hear her voice.
    Or ask her
    how she handled it
    when I left for college.
    Or pour out all my troubles
    to the one person who knows me
    better than anyone.
    That is—
    when she knows me
    at all.

WHEN MY MOTHER HEARS MY VOICE
    She says, “Holly