Author: Kay Foley

My mother and my aunt traveled together
with girlfriends when they were young.
Canada, Lake Louise, Banff, Lake Michigan.
Photos show them on beaches laughing
gay carefree my mother beautiful.
Fur coat, marvelous hats, the velvet beaded jacket.
She lived at home, spent her own money on these things.
I remember the words Baked Alaska, chateaubriand.
Cigarettes smoked on the beach, escapades
in Ginny’s car, Bridge Club luncheons.
When my mother was old, her memory failing, it was this
time of her life she seemed to remember best
always with a fond smile.  Her young woman’s freedom.
She married my father, left St. Louis had seven babies
in ten years.  Gone were the hats, the two-piece bathing suit.
She sewed clothes for us on a tiny budget.  
I cannot say how happy she was or wasn’t.