Fifty Years to the Day

A robust, beefy smaell bubbles up,

wafts insistently from the large dented

pot gurgling on the back burner as Mother,

uniformed in her ruffled apron, busies

herself with the prime task of her day,

preparation of a hearty dinner.

 

Her wrist snaps expertly, methodically,

rapidly slicing vegetables for the pot,

while the cozy aroma of flour and yeast

nuzzles my nose as she folds tufts of

batter before flicking off tender lumps of

dumplings into the steaming stew.

 

Fifty ;years to the day, her eyes dart apprehensively

around the room until fixing upon her caregiver

determined attention, her inept hands gripping

rolled washcloths in a permanently atrophied clutch.

Birdlike, she oens greedily for each mouthful

of offered puree that staves off hunger, keeps her

earthbound for yet another day.

 

first published in The Oak