by Janie Emaus
As teenagers we live in a different world from our mothers, a world where mothers hang out on the peripheries. Of course, almost everyone has one; they are unavoidable annoyances.
Today, as I approach that edge, as I am the one with the teenage daughter, I look at my mother through different eyes. And I sometimes wish I could halt the years and stop her from growing older, stop her from repeating herself.
We sit at my kitchen table as the sun designs a mosaic of light on the tile floor. My daughter, Anna, sits next to my mother.
"When is Rick going to be here?" my mother asks, referring to my husband.
"I don't know, Mom," I answer patiently. "He'll be here for dinner."
I sigh and get up from the table. This is at least the tenth time she has asked that question in as many minutes.
While my mother and daughter play Monopoly, I busy myself making a salad.
"Don't put in any onions," Mom says. "You know how Daddy hates onions."
"Yes, Mom," I answer, shoving the scallions back into the fridge.
I scrub off a carrot and chop it into bite-size pieces. I thrust the knife into the carrot with more force than is necessary. A slice falls onto the floor.