My mother knew my feet got cold
on ski slopes just to spoil her fun
she’d wait until I was whimpering in pain
to drag me out to the car, take off my boots
start the engine, blast the heat
order me to straighten out my three pairs of socks
hurry up and get warm while she snorted
in impatience and I felt worthless
Now I’m mother to a five year old
who only has to use the toilet
when there’s none around, doesn’t get cold
easily, but can’t sit through a meal
without breaking something
labors over a Do Not Disturb sign for his door
that reads this means you, Mom, NOT Dad
asks me to help him tape it up
and I want to tell my mother to forget the car
don’t make me wait with frozen toes
it will just take longer to warm them
and she’ll have to listen to me cry
while they burn in frostbite and itch
take me into the lodge, buy cups of hot cocoa
read a book while I huddle close to the fire
for once feeling cared for
Joanne Holdridge lives in Devens, MA and has recently published poems in Coal City Review, Illuminations, The Midwest Quarterly, and has appeared in a previous issue of GHLL. She has work forthcoming in California Quarterly and has been nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize.