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I'm No Soccer Mom

I've never had any trouble
envisioning myself
as a freaky little flapper,
beaded blue dress swaying
and tinkling with each step,
holding out a hand for a cup
of strong bathtub gin.
maybe doing the Charleston
with a suited slick-haired
male counterpart.

I can see myself
as a depression era
farm wife in a thin,
cotton dress,
the breeze cutting through
as I stand in the front doorway,
rubbing my chapped hands together
sighing as my over-alled husband
comes up the front walk all
dirty and dignified.

I know I would have made
an excellent Rosie the Riveter-
dancing alone
across the braided rag rug
in the living room
to Glenn Miller or Tommy Dorsey,
in loafers and a peasant dress,
tears streaming down my face-
waiting for my Soldier
to finally come home
from overseas.

I can see
a clear picture of me
as a June Cleaver carbon copy,
pearls, apron and
a holier-than-thou attitude,
baking bread for
a huge Sunday dinner
served on Wednesday,
listening politely
to my Ward
talk about the office.

So, I wonder why I cannot see myself
as a part of my own generation.

Learn more about this author, Kat Apf.
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