a woman scorned

I am thirteen when my mother picks up an artichoke and throws it at the wall. It is half-eaten, the fuzzy heart soft and exposed. She picks it up off her plate from where she sits at the head of the table. Or maybe she isn’t sitting because she is getting more milk out of the fridge, more butter for us to dip the leaves in. Our demands suffocate the room. 

My brother, sisters, and I watch as the artichoke soars through the air and splatters on the red wallpaper. The silence that follows is louder than her scream. Streaks of butter rain down and drip onto the floor, where a puddle forms. Later, the dog will try to lick it. 

For weeks after, my mother scrapes the dried artichoke from the wall. The event becomes something of family lore, revised and expanded over the years, shared with dinner guests for a good laugh about mom rage. “Remember when Mom lost it and threw an artichoke at the wall?” Even she laughs.

But there is also something more sobering in her voice, if you listen for it. Ma…