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Easter, after months away on a pilgrimage of fortune, at her behest, I arrive at my mother’s, exhausted from painful independence and spurious adulting. In a flash of observation—the sweat on my brow, my many contrived smiles—she could tell my state; therefore proceeding to fatten me from her pot: egusi soup spliced with orisirisi, armed with eba as hard as a bullet in the manner of my fancy. By the following morning—Easter proper—while at table, she reminds me that I still have the option of moving back in with her. I smile again, certain my testosteronic iron-head will never agree. But all of these were before she—in that voice too many from my growing years—remind me who the boss is under her roof. I smile yet again, tearing from the wings on my plate, and in a voice solid as it was gracious, I say to her: I’m leaving tomorrow.
Kelvin Kellman writes from Oxford, England. He’s had works featured or forthcoming in Santa Clara Review, The Blue Mountain Review, Hawaii Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Poetry South, The Fiddlehead, Westerly, and elsewhere.
Editor’s Note
Many of us didn’t manage to get back home to visit family this summer. As I miss my family in South Africa, ‘Home Again’ brings me comfort: while home is warm and welcoming, it simultaneously comes with its cages.
Here’s to family, as beautifully described by Kelvin.
With yearning,
Alexandra x
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