Flash Memoir

Rest stop towards Gallup — I buy an Acoma pot from the potter. Her wares are on a blanketed table in the parking lot. I pay $80.00, a very fair price. I say: “Almost 40 years ago my mom bought me a large pot from Acoma Pueblo.” I show her the size with my hands. I don’t tell her my mom spent $250.00 which in those days represented a fortune to me. She did not offer me rent or car repair money, but I didn’t mind. The pot is still gorgeous, painted with 2 earth-toned birds. “That’s worth a lot today,” the potter says. “Is it signed?” I nod. She wraps up the new pot. It is small, a seed pot with just a tiny hole at the top, painted in free-drawn converging lines. I take the package, walk away, and burst into tears. My father bought Acoma pots on their honeymoon. My mother, often a mean person, did give me a present. I’m almost 70 years old. The potter wears her graying hair tied back. Her face shows both worry and calm, not unlike my own in the mirror. The tax is a bit more than $6.00.
    – Miriam Sagan

From today’s http://lostpaper.blogspot.com/

Yes, this was written and published quickly (this week), inspired in part by editor Irene Zahava’s call for flash memoir with numbers.

M is for Medusa by Miriam Sagan

In our girls’ school uniforms we watch “Un Chien Andalou” in the auditorium. I’d rather be in the bathroom, hanging out and smoking Balkan Sobranies with my friend Juliet. She favors the black ones with the gold filters. They taste of elsewhere. A hole opens in the man’s palm and ants crawl in and out. I’m unimpressed. We have plenty of ants, in every sandy crack in the sidewalk. My father is at war with all nature, setting mouse and ant traps all over the house. And yelling at us if we leave the sugar bowl uncovered. But he is losing the battle. An old mop abandoned on the back porch is colonized by yellow jackets who build a nest in its snaky Medusa head. My father’s three daughters swell from flat-chested childhood into the busty rebellion of womanhood. We roll up our uniform skirts and show our legs, a shadow between the thighs. We believe, for the first time, that we are real, and begin to act accordingly. 

http://lostpaper.blogspot.com/