and blue pajama bottoms to bed, a plaid
bathrobe in the mornings. He liked to read
the local paper on the dining room table,
Jake the Cat curled at his slippered feet. In
the kitchen, my mother cracked eggs and
fried bacon while gazing out the window
over the big backyard where bird feeders
rocked from tree branches with the weight
of hungry squirrels, their whiskers shedding
husks. Mom looked like a blonde bombshell
in her plain cotton nightgown, but she never
noticed—Dad a real heartthrob with his salt
and pepper hair and dark, soulful eyes. Yet,
all my parents ever wanted was an ordinary
life. They liked being together in their own
house, never traveled a lot or cared to, didn’t
particularly like company except for family.
So this is a poem where nothing happens and
nobody dies, where my mother and father are
having their bacon and scrambled eggs on an
ordinary day. You can live forever in a poem
like this one—and now they will.
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” ONE ART, Rattle, The SUN, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and many others. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award.
