My Mother Liked Driving Around

Last night I listened to Wild Game mother involves daughter

in her longterm affair  daughter and mother

enmeshed good story with very little

physical description mother was beautiful and beautiful

how often I tried (my mother

and I were not enmeshed  if we were I didn’t know )

to describe my mother when I was young

tall long legs large gold hoops

chain smoker elusive she did not go outside without

red lipstick  house full of pocketbooks with

cigarettes, lipsticks, mints in wrappers, compact, sometimes

a small package of nuts, chewing gum, a pen or two, car keys.

She was a serious car driver. Good driver. I am not.

She liked riding around looking at this and that

junk stores apple orchards nurseries farm stands when we bought a house in the country

thirty four years ago I understood I liked that too.


Esther Cohen
Let me tell you why I'm here, and why I hope you'll join me. I am here to poem, to play with words, to tell stories when I can, and to ask you for yours. Words are what I love, how I see, and what I say. Words are how I know my life, and how I find my friends. I'm here to ask you to join me. Right here. To send me your stories, and your poems. And to read mine when you can.


  1. Did all of us in our generation have the same mother? We called mine “pistol packin’ Mama.” Liberated ’40’s women, daughters of immigrants most decidedly “modern American women”–NOT their Mamas.

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