Lillie Mae was the first person, other than her mother, Ella remembered being in love with. She — Lillie Mae — chewed gum, had a gold front tooth, wore long, dark auburn wigs, bright and warm against her dark brown skin. She — Ella — buried her nose in Lillie Mae’s neck, held up high in her arms. Heard the muted snapping of the gum in Lillie Mae’s mouth. Lillie Mae could get Ella, a picky eater, to eat when no one else could. For Lillie Mae, Ella would open her jaws for the spoon.
April 13, 2014 · 6:32 pm
Lillie Mae Lovett, a prose poem
Filed under for children, health, mysterious, notes, prose poetry, short stories
Tagged as auburn, christy sheffield sanford, death, eating, florida, food, fort lauderdale, gainesville, gold, gravesite, hair, lillie, lillie mae lovett, love, lovell, lovett, mae, memorial, memory, mixed genre, motherhood, nana, neck, nourishment, novel, picky eater, poetry, prose, smell, soul, spoon, too bad, women