Eddi Oliveira Salado

“The doctor told me
I have a beautiful bosom,”
Memere announces at 80.
My sister and I exchange glances,
but not surprised.
She always tells us, “wear a bra
even when you sleep–you will have
the bosoms of a young woman
for the rest of your life!”

In the mornings, her bra enters
the kitchen before the rest of her,
stiff and pointed like ancient pyramids.

Memere’s claim is, once upon a time
she was in burlesque.
Like many of Memere’s stories,
we are not sure if it is true.
It’s possible. She performs
while she vacuums, swerving, belting
out songs loud like Ethel Merman.
My sister Karen and I call her
“Ethel Memere.”

Memere crochets and fishes.
“It teaches you patience,” she says,
and teaches me to clean a fish
when I am six.

After her stroke,
she calls me by my father’s name.
Wears a navy blue cloche hat
and dangly earrings in the hospital.
Talks about a white horse
she had as a child in Quebec.
Her gown hanging like a shadow
around her shoulders–
bra strap still showing.