Simply Disillusioned

Every day the cloth was spread
upon the ancient, mahogany dining table.
I was a child and it did not strike me
how meticulous Mother was about the
stains.
To me, they were part of sitting down to
dinner and eating spaghetti.
After all, even tomato sauce has a sense
of self preservation.

(We all want to make our mark.)

One day, Mother said there were too many
stains.
The new tablecloth was crisp clean
at dinner…
To me, it didn't exist.

I ate on the floor that night
(Thank god the rug only gets cleaned
every other Wednesday).

The next day someone spilled orange juice
on the tablecloth.
When I said I didn't do it,
Mother blamed the store.
I told her she wasn't perfect and spent the
rest of the day in my room.

Mother grew old and I loved her for her wrinkles
but she never realized that
new cloth can't hide memories.