Kelly Rogers

Writer focused on fiction for middle-aged women with spunk


Mom, mom, MOM, moooooommmmmm,

I hear amidst the din of Saturday Costco shoppers.

I’m hiding in the dairy, an old milk maid soothing a hot flash.

They want to spend my money on twenty pounds of salty snacks that will go stale like my mood this insufferable July afternoon.

Mom, mmmmmmmmmmom, m-O-m.

How did that become my name?

Oh yeah, it’s when they lit a fire of joy in my belly that slid out into my arms.

I miss my name sometimes, especially in Costco.

I can’t afford to respond to some other kid’s mommy call because…

Well because my buoyant, beautiful girls just found me.

They are holding a giant container of figs like I held their tiny bodies not so long ago.

Except their bodies weren’t shriveled, they were lush.

“Mom, these are essential,” my oldest says, hopeful, unabashed by my face of financial scorn.

We walk out with those bulk figs, California dreaming, on such a summer’s day.

I am mom, Mother, MOHM. That is my name.


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