Less than twelve and fiercely independent.
I rang her doorbell.
Proud of my initiative,
dropping in was not my habit.
Mid-day in the avenues were quiet,
neighbors at school, work, or otherwise occupied.
Some moments passed before she answered,
and then—there it was,
her great big naked bosom!
And she,
in just panties,
unaffected by her ostensive posture,
sweeping a hand across their undersides,
as to wipe away accumulated moisture.
I stood transfixed,
they undulated into anatomical position.
All I could muster was: “Your hair is pink!”.
“Champagne!”, she declared was its pigmentation.
She never asked me in.
So after the awkward, “hello, how are you”’s…
I turned and continued home.
In the half-century since,
I’ve tried to imagine how she felt so bold,
how in those moments she couldn’t find a shift,
and what was happening that she put on hold?
In the future, I announced when I’d be there.
And still, the image of my birth mother’s bosom
remains as vivid as the Champagne hair.
Cherol Ockrassa 