Cross

At concerts that I did not want to attend with my mother,
I learned to practice any number of nuisances possible in a
place of silence. I wore a cross to vex my mother, a Unitarian,
then ran the pendant back and forth along my necklace chain
like a loud zipper. During a pianissimo passage I unwrapped
waxy paper from a caramel, then coughed as if feathers tickled
my throat.

I’m paying for past trespasses now.

To my own teenage child, I have become the Grand Annoyer.
When I ask him how school went today or please pass the
butter, I annoy him because it’s none of my business, because
I don’t need butter, you already weigh too much. When I
laugh, I irritate him by showing my teeth. I bother him when
I’m sitting around in my pajamas—he hates the color pink;
it looks annoying on me. And when I wear polish on my
fingernails, he says my hands are dipped in blood, and when
I leave my nails alone, the pale bare hands look like dough
especially when they reach out to hug him, which constitutes
unwanted touch—and, he says, what is your problem anyhow?

 

Margaret Hasse, Earth’s Appetite (Nodin Press, 2013)