The Bewitching Hour
No One Is Coming Home
a prose poem
Published in
Oct 16, 2020
Mom fills the old Tupperware tumbler with ice cubes then opens the refrigerator door and tips the box of wine to empty the final dregs of her weekly supply. She manhandles the spout, pushes in on the plastic tab and fills her tumbler.
“It’s four o’clock. Getting ready for The Loneliest Hour of the Day,” she tells me, almost apologetically.
“Whatever you need to get you through the evening,” I reply.
“Five o’clock was the bewitching hour for over 45 years,” she tells me. “Your father would walk through the door with that lovely smile on his face, finished with work and ready to be a husband and a father. No one comes through that door at five any more.”
“I’m here today,” I say but it’s not enough.
