Mrs. Peppinger was the first American lady,
other than my first grade teacher,
whom I became acquainted with.
Mrs. Peppinger was the mother of Hermina
in my class – Hermina, who was the way
I wished I was.
Secretly I also wished my mother was
the way Hermina’s mother was: powdered
and even rouged and lipsticked,
and smelling sweet, like dollar bills.
Once, in Mr. Deetchock’s butcher store,
where my mother sent me for a soup bone
with still a little meat attached,
Mrs. Peppinger was by the counter.
I stood close to her, hoping somebody
would think me hers.
Mama, I am old now
and you are long in heaven.
Tomorrow is your 113th birthday
and I write you this apology.
I am so, so sorry, Mama.
I truly am.
– Ina Jones
