The Arithmetic of Single Mothers

Artwork by Emily Clancy, used with permission from the artist.

Eighteen clementines on the counter, too many for a small family. Packed into lunches, they knock against the thermos of chocolate milk, become bruised. Eighteen days until Spring Break, each day marked off on the calendar, she needs to find a babysitter. Eighteen years to get this right.

Two days to every weekend, lawn mowing, grocery shopping, fixing the broken gutter. Two laundry baskets filled with clean clothing needing to be folded, socks, pants. Two years old when he started to love dance, ballet, tutus. Two boys who teased him until he stopped. Two superiors at two different jobs massaging her shoulders, kissing her cheek, why can’t you take a joke? Two hours between getting off work and bedtime, homework, dinner on the stove. Two college degrees, two jobs. Two bandaids, both knees. Two cats curled up on the foot of the bed, purring.

Five dollars for ice cream at the end of the bike ride, he’s making rocket sounds as he goes down the hills. Five missed violin concerts, awards ceremonies, invite-your-parents-for-lunch days because she was working. Five weeks total without electricity, moving money around from credit cards to checking accounts to cover bills. Five days saved up for a vacation, backroads to Alabama, camping on the Nantahala along the way. Five shooting stars. Five items packed into a lunch, fruit, vegetable, sandwich, milk, a treat.