I never trusted bedtime when my mother smiled.
That was the tell -
the softening of her voice,
the way she sounded already
We lived beneath the cotton skies
of Elmira’s leaf-laced light,
on Lincoln Street, where she ruled -
half lullaby, half ambush.
She drifted in as the day gave up,
shadows steeping on the floor,
and asked, Who wants a story?
as if the answer weren’t written on our faces.
“I’ll tell you one about Jackanorry…”
Silk and mischief in her voice.
We leaned in anyway,
already knowing how it ended.
Four lines in, she snapped the book shut -
And now my story’s done. Good night.
We groaned, laughed, performed our outrage.
That one again?
Moonlight slid along the sill.
Laughter tucked us in regardless.
Daytime had its own lessons.
Popcorn - safe, warm -
until someone bit down
on the quiet weight of a boiled potato.
Chocolate chips promised comfort,
then turned to frozen peas.
We learned to chew carefully.
We learned not to assume sweetness.
Her mischief moved with the seasons -
bikes rattling, knees split open,
grass on our tongues,
the kitchen daring us to trust it again.
A childhood built of pleasure and traps,
and the relief of being fooled
by someone who loved us.
Now I sit four hours away,
where Boulevard bends into Street,
crickets tuning the dark,
fireflies practicing disappearance.
Memory keeps her close.
She never raised her voice.
She never ruled by fear.
Her authority was quieter -
a bedtime trick, a phantom pea,
the patience of knowing more
and letting us find out slowly.
My siblings and I still laugh -
older now, we think -
yet I still pause over a bowl of popcorn,
still bite carefully into sweetness,
still expect the joke.
So bless that Queen of Lincoln Street,
who taught me the world can surprise
without cruelty,
that love may mislead
and still be kind -
that a story can end too soon
and leave you smiling in the dark,
awake, attentive,
willing to trust again.
GBS jr
2021
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