by Sherine Elise Gilmour

It's #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day's archives!

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Some mornings the bus is a miniature party.
Our words like streamers.

At each bus stop: a different home. A door opens
and a child with a ventilator is carried down.

At each stop, applause from all the mothers lucky enough
to ride the bus. “Go Sasha, go Sasha.” We compete

to catch the child’s attention. Who will hit the right tone?
The right volume. Right smile or word or phrase to make

the child notice and grin. The children who can walk do so
down the rubber yellow-lines of the bus, turned fashion runway.

We want them to strut. We call and hoot. We pout,
blow kisses. We are inappropriate

with our affections, nicknames, the way we touch their hands
like mini saviors, the passing of saints. The way we demand

high fives. “She’s better looking than Beyonce. Watch out for the boys.”
“Look at Jaden’s Micky Mouse sneakers. He’s so handsome today.”

The children are rained down on in every language.
For their clothing and their hair. For the toys

they are technically not allowed to bring onto the city-sanctioned bus.
“Oh my! Is that Thomas? Is that Miss Piggy? Is that your blinky?”

“Look what Eduardo has today, his very own cellphone.
Mr. Businessman, that’s what you are.”

We give them futures, possible and improbable.
Proclamations: “Look at all these beautiful, blessed children.”

Excuses: “That’s okay, you don’t have to say “hi.”
Tender jibing: “Are you going to stay awake so we can see your eyes?”

And for my son, always, “How is my boyfriend this morning?”
These mothers smile their widest smiles

as if paparazzi are on the bus, as if it’s picture day every day.
I am slow to rise to this kind of excitement

but manage to say good morning. My son and I take our seats
in this moving cranking manual ignition diesel-tank theater of love.

Who are these women? I have never met any like them before.

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Sherine Elise Gilmour graduated with an MFA in poetry from New York University. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and her poems and essays have appeared in American Journal of Poetry, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Many Mountains Moving, River Styx, So To Speak, Tinderbox Literay Journal, and elsewhere.

by Sherine Gilmour

I run the Black and Decker
over the car’s upholstery,
press into seams, shove the nozzle under seats.
Every other Saturday
when my father had custody,
I’d sit between shadows
on the lawn and watch
as he vacuumed, then took
each and every piece of carpeting out,
washed it with a hose and special soap.
Sometimes I’d lean inside the car,
admire his face, gleaming
pink with effort,
and ask if I could help
and would be given a rag and told to buff
the glove compartment, at which point,
he’d promptly move somewhere else,
the trunk or the hubcaps.
While I could never be angry
at the cars themselves,
too beautiful, too glorious,
I could be angry with him
and was for years
and still am.
A man who left me when I was eight,
packed up whatever car he had at the time, the Pontiac,
the junky Chrysler, or the apple red Ford,
and drove across state after state after state.
But here I am at the sink, using a little dish soap
to scrub pine needles
out from the ridges of the plastic floor protectors.
What can I say?
I like the new car smell. I like
when the upholstery looks brand-new.
It’s nice to pretend I get to keep something perfect.

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Sherine Elise Gilmour graduated with an MFA in Poetry from New York University. She was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and her poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming from American Journal of Poetry, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Many Mountains Moving, River Styx, So To Speak, Tinderbox, and other publications.

by Sherine Elise Gilmour

A mother I do not know says, “I am told my child cannot go to school next year because she needs a feeding tube.”

The words “feeding tube” hang in the air. Her daughter wears purple corduroy pants embroidered with princess crowns. Her legs are thin toothpicks. They kick and kick the seat in front of her. The mother says, “Most days, I put on tights, then leggings, then jeans, just to keep her warm. Just to hold up her pants.”

Another mother says, “My husband’s family is so angry with me. I am the one who got our son evaluated.”

Another mother says, “Where I come from, autism means 'alone.' 'Auto,' 'alone,' so now my mother keeps calling and saying, 'Why do you send Ibrahim to a special school? He’s just a loner.' They called him loner last weekend at my house after I spent the day cooking for them. Why does a loner need a special school? Loner, loner. I pray to God, I tell them. But why can’t my son have Allah and a special school too?”

Words in me I can’t get out. I am the perpetual listener. Locked up, mummified, my ribs like a corset, my anxiety like a cloth wrapped tight around me.

Finally, I lean into the group of women, heads huddled together in the aisle of the bus, and I say, “I had to speak to my mother… She never calls my son by name. She calls him nicknames, Sheldon and Forrest Gump. She visited and she kept shouting, 'Run, Forest, run,' in front of everyone at the park."

The mother who usually sleeps says in a low quiet voice, “My family will not visit for the holidays. They are embarrassed of him.” She wraps her cardigan around her chest like a blanket and turns away.

The one mother in the second row who is always rude starts laughing.

A mother who understands some English begins to speak. She speaks quickly in Spanish, covers her eyes, begins to cry.

The mother in the seat behind me says, “I am so lucky. My parents understand. They try to help, but my mother is in her 80s. I worry, what’s going to happen? Who will take care of him when I die? I know, I know, he’ll be in a home. But …” She trails off and looks at her two-year-old son, his skin moon-colored, a child’s skin, soft and sweet. He is reaching toward the top of the bus window. He reaches over and over again to where it is brightly lit. She leans down to his face and looks up. “What is it, honey? What is it?” Something only her son can see.

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Sherine Elise Gilmour graduated with an M.F.A. in Poetry from New York University. She was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and her poems have appeared or are forthcoming from Green Mountains Review, Many Mountains Moving, Oxford University Press, River Styx, So To Speak, SWWIM, Tinderbox, and other publications.