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A Queen in My Blue Jeans

A Queen in My Blue Jeans A QUEEN IN MY BLUE JEANS TESSA Mc COY t is a week until Christmas and Momma is nodding out by the tree. In Ia thin cotton shift, she sits Indian style, one leg folded under the other, next to a kerosene heater trying to wrap presents. A burning cigarette in one hand. A pair of scissors in the other. A heap of ashes cradled in the fold of the gown between her knees. 85 Every time her chin hits her chest, she opens her eyes slightly as if she is straining against the weight of her own existence and says, “Get.” When Momma’s doing pills, she likes to be by herself. There’s something lonely about the sound of a pill being crushed against a plate that reminds her of her past, of her failures, of her victories. Or so she says. On nights like tonight, when Momma is real bad off, I stay near enough. I am afraid a lit cigarette will drop and burn the house down, and us with it, if she is alone. I am afraid she will stop breathing and no one will know and she will die. On nights when we pile up http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

A Queen in My Blue Jeans

McCoy, Tessa
Appalachian Review , Volume 44 (1) – Sep 15, 2016
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081

Abstract

A QUEEN IN MY BLUE JEANS TESSA Mc COY t is a week until Christmas and Momma is nodding out by the tree. In Ia thin cotton shift, she sits Indian style, one leg folded under the other, next to a kerosene heater trying to wrap presents. A burning cigarette in one hand. A pair of scissors in the other. A heap of ashes cradled in the fold of the gown between her knees. 85 Every time her chin hits her chest, she opens her eyes slightly as if she is straining against the weight of her own existence and says, “Get.” When Momma’s doing pills, she likes to be by herself. There’s something lonely about the sound of a pill being crushed against a plate that reminds her of her past, of her failures, of her victories. Or so she says. On nights like tonight, when Momma is real bad off, I stay near enough. I am afraid a lit cigarette will drop and burn the house down, and us with it, if she is alone. I am afraid she will stop breathing and no one will know and she will die. On nights when we pile up

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Sep 15, 2016

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