Is Milka in?
I ask her mother
who has opened the door
of the farmhouse.
Yes, but she's
in the bath
at the moment,
but come in Benny,
if you don't mind waiting.
So I go
into the warm kitchen,
sit on one
of the kitchen chairs.
Would you like something?
her mother asks smiling,
to eat or drink?
Tea would be welcome,
I say,
taking in her smile.
She nods,
turns around,
walks to a cupboard,
gets down a mug.
I watch her move,
her motherly hips,
her cosy behind,
the loose dress
she is wearing.
She turns
and says,
sugar?
or are you
sweet enough?
Two please,
not quite sweet
enough yet,
I say.
She laughs,
and I note her
motherly *******
held in loosely
by her bra and dress.
She'll not be long
in the bath,
her mother says,
we can hope.
I have a vision
of Milka in the bath,
wishing I could be
washing her back
with a sponge or flannel,
kissing her,
and holding her.
You are patient with her,
Benny,
her mother says,
I lose my temper with her
and have to bite my tongue;
not that she does,
not like that
with her father though,
he'd not take her backchat,
he'd soon tan her behind
as old as she is.
I say nothing,
take in her mother's hands
as they go about
preparing my mug of tea,
the ringed finger,
the red washed out skin,
the nails well cared for
despite the housework.
Going anywhere nice today?
she says,
eyeing me,
a smile there.
Cinema probably,
new Elvis film,
I reply,
thinking of
the previous Saturday
in Milka's bed
while her mother
was in town shopping,
her father on the farm,
her brothers fishing
out some place.
That'll be nice,
she says,
where is that girl?
time she takes.
She gives me
my mug of tea
and I sip it.
She walks out
to the passage.
I watch her go
and sense an inner
warming glow.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 3:33 AM UTC
Is Milka in?
I ask her mother
who has opened the door
of the farmhouse.
Yes, but she's
in the bath
at the moment,
but come in Benny,
if you don't mind waiting.
So I go
into the warm kitchen,
sit on one
of the kitchen chairs.
Would you like something?
her mother asks smiling,
to eat or drink?
Tea would be welcome,
I say,
taking in her smile.
She nods,
turns around,
walks to a cupboard,
gets down a mug.
I watch her move,
her motherly hips,
her cosy behind,
the loose dress
she is wearing.
She turns
and says,
sugar?
or are you
sweet enough?
Two please,
not quite sweet
enough yet,
I say.
She laughs,
and I note her
motherly *******
held in loosely
by her bra and dress.
She'll not be long
in the bath,
her mother says,
we can hope.
I have a vision
of Milka in the bath,
wishing I could be
washing her back
with a sponge or flannel,
kissing her,
and holding her.
You are patient with her,
Benny,
her mother says,
I lose my temper with her
and have to bite my tongue;
not that she does,
not like that
with her father though,
he'd not take her backchat,
he'd soon tan her behind
as old as she is.
I say nothing,
take in her mother's hands
as they go about
preparing my mug of tea,
the ringed finger,
the red washed out skin,
the nails well cared for
despite the housework.
Going anywhere nice today?
she says,
eyeing me,
a smile there.
Cinema probably,
new Elvis film,
I reply,
thinking of
the previous Saturday
in Milka's bed
while her mother
was in town shopping,
her father on the farm,
her brothers fishing
out some place.
That'll be nice,
she says,
where is that girl?
time she takes.
She gives me
my mug of tea
and I sip it.
She walks out
to the passage.
I watch her go
and sense an inner
warming glow.
A BOY AND HIS GIRLFRIEND;S MOTHER IN 1964.
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