148 The Meadow Home from High School JoDee Renae I push through the front door into the kitchen. My mother paces, back and forth across the worn kitchen linoleum, arms crossed over her heart, auburn hair ruffled, wringing anxiety through her small hands. Facing the washing machine, lid laid open, she drizzles bleach scented liquid over the clothes. She stops, thinks again, adds more. She drops the lid. She turns toward me and hoists herself atop the washing machine. White knuckles grip the edges of the lid, sealing it tight. I stop, meet her glare, wait for her to tell me. Anger burns through the hard brown of her eyes,
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