Rob S. Friedman
March 2024
Grandma's Mordant Potpourri
The hallway smelled abandoned. At the door a metallic whiff of industrial paint and my mother’s saliva’d handkerchief across my cheek.
We waited forever for the apartment door’s hinges to sound the first note of dread for the kids facing our Grandma’s mordant potpourri.
A broiler rack of chicken. Frozen fries in the oven. A box of thawed out peas sat on the formica counter, burner waiting for a match.
Infused into it all was the sour smoke of Pall Mall, glass ashtrays strategically placed, all at a casual reach to flick an ash, to snub
the last and rest the next and catch the errant flecks of sot weed that inevitably made their way from her lips to her tongue, to her stained fingertips.
Rob S. Friedman 