“I can’t stand it any longer, Mick,” Mom says. “I’m leaving you. I’m going home to Pap. I’ll have rooftree above my head there. Pap will take me in. He’ll give me and my children the best he has.”
Mom lifts the washrag from the wash pan of soapy water. She washes my neck and ears. Mom pushes the warm soft rag against my ears. Drops of warm water ooze down my neck to my shirt collar. Mom’s lips are drawn tight. Her long fingers grip the washrag like a chicken’s toes clutch a roost limb on a winter night.