Sweet Sixteen
 
My father couldn't afford to feed
a sixteen-year old daughter.
He said the way I was fillin' out,
he wouldn't have to.

He signed me out of school.
In 1965, a tomato didn't need smarts
to get a man -- I was so pretty 
he wondered if I was his.  Either way,
he swore I wasn't going to marry
some trash.  I knew better
than to argue.

He started inviting men over to play
cards.  I'd watch my mother rip 
the pretty plastic cloth off
the kitchen table and replace it
with a liquor bottle and thick little glasses.
Her eyes busy on the floor,
she'd tell me to stay put in my chair,
turn the radio on for me,
wring her hands on her threadbare apron
and disappear into her chores.

Whiskey made daddy's eyes look
like glistening red slits with greedy
secrets.  After he'd lose a couple hands, 
he'd make me get off my chair and spin 
around with my arms held out
"See?  What I tell you?  That's my little girl."
my arms heavy, back arching,  
"What you been feedin' her, Ed?"
tippy-toed, my cheeks aching
as I smiled ~ my only response.
"And she's quiet, too."   

Laughs from their throats
brought drinks to their lips.
My body felt so stiff, my bones 
creaked like ice bending.

I'd sit back down and rest 
my arm on the radio, feel
its orange heat and buzz
that made me as invisible
as music in the air.

Staring at yellow linoleum squares
with pairs of cherries in each corner,
*I was a girl wearing a bonnet, 
picking only perfect cherries 
and I wouldn't need my parents
to hold my ladder, 
wouldn't need them for anything 
and then they'd love me, 
everyone would love me 
and I would never have to get married.*








copyright 1994 kathy jo kramer