Peg Cherrin-Myers

Midwest Nice

I always imagine when I take my mother’s ashes out of the armoire, I will be ugly-crying with snot, tears and guilt all over my face and hands.

I remove the engraved cherrywood box that holds our cat’s ashes to get to my mother’s. I don’t remember what hers looks like, how it’s still in the white postal envelope from Indiana with large orange stickers on all four sides that read “Cremated Remains” in bold print. The weight catches me off guard,

and I say, “Damn, Mom, you’re really heavy!”  There I am, holding my mom and laughing.  I’m in such a good mood I even throw the cat’s box  into my backpack for our trip. I’m so happy  to show her my Ram Longhorn and have her listen  to all my favorite honky-tonks.

Whenever I turn onto a street, I stretch out my right arm to keep the pack from sliding as if  she’s sitting there, and once I realize what I’m doing,  I pull over and buckle her in. 

At the trailhead, I tell her I’ve inherited  her inability to get lost on trails. How  someone could spin me in circles,  and I’d still be able to feel her  compass in me pointing north. The first pond 

we come up on sounds like a frog orgy, and I say,  “Mom, these are frogs,” and she says, “Peggy Sue,  I know what frogs sound like. I’m not deaf.” And I say,  “Oh, I didn’t know the dead could hear.” And that’s how  most of our hike went: me pointing out trees I’ve named  Little Miss Giraffe, Cup Holder, Slingshot, and her smart-ass comments that I catch mid-air in my fist and

swallow. At one point, she complains about an odor,  and I say I don’t know what that is, but it smells  like something has died, and I think how ironic she be complaining about the dead smelling bad. 

Nearing the finish of our hike, we hear sirens off in the distance that remind her of the life  sentence I’ve given myself, and she says,  “Please don’t kill yourself,” and I say, “Did you?” 

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About the Author

Peg Cherrin-Myers lives in Southeast Michigan. They are a stay-at-home poet who spreads peanut butter on white bread, folds it in half, and dips it into a hot bowl of chili. They wear rainbow Tevas and drive a pickup. Their work has appeared in Frogpond, Stanchion Zine, Kingfisher Journal, Periodicities, and many others. Find them on X (formerly Twitter): @pegcherrinmyers.

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