by Marina Richards
I picture my mother's hands fluttering through the air, then going still on the bronze photo frame of herself by the telephone by the bed. She likes to point out how elegant and thin she was before she got pregnant. How she could have been a runway model like Twiggy, or a singer like Cher, yet gave up her career ambitions to raise her kids. She had suffered, and now it’s her right to bitch about the unfairness of it all. And in many ways and as much as I dislike being her captive audience, I understand. Of course, I don't tell her this.
Marina Richards is a freelance writer from the Boston area. Her fiction has been published in Volume 10 of the Hawaii Pacific Review, and her essays in the Humor Press and Writer's Digest Magazine.