Aren’t I Just a Regular Mother-Tuhreesa

There’s only two women working at the post office

and a line of us, ten people long.

One of them isn’t helping anyone;

she’s scribbling addresses on a thick stack of mailing forms.

She looks up at us as she massages her hand.

“Sorry.”

And I realize our spaced-out blank waiting faces

look perturbed and intimidating to her. She makes a big show

of how much her hand hurts. “Look,

it’s swelling up,” she shows her co-worker.

“Yeah, it’s tough getting old, isn’t it?” and she laughs.

“She always makes fun of me,” she explains to her current customer.

“Look at how many I have.” She holds up

the stack. “Yeah, that’s a lot.”

Up at the counter, the woman helping me go gets

my package. The other still rubs her hand,

trying to comfort her crisis. “I write a lot, too,” I offer,

“and when my hand cramps up, I pretend I’m doing calligraphy,

focus on making the letters

beautiful, graceful,

and it usually relaxes my hand.”

I don’t say any of this aloud—just sign

say thanks, and leave. In the parking lot, I carry on

the conversation: “Might help.

but don’t blame me if it doesn’t.”