She stood as she always did,
at the sink in the tiny kitchen.
Wearing that apron,
with all the little red Tea Pots,
scattered around on a field
of white cotton.
Tied with a big bow in the back.
Gloved in yellow rubber,
to protect her hands and nails.
I stood a moment in the doorway
and we smiled at one another,
the way Mother's and half grown
children do.
Reflectively she reached up and
brushed back a brownish-blond
lock of hair that had straggled
down too close to her right eye.
A frequent and oft repeated
movement that always made
me smile.
I passed by her and briefly,
touched her shoulder,
As I went.
She patted my hand,
in a simple gesture of
returned implied affection,
Like we always did.
There was the sweet scent
Of Lilac hovering around her.
"Hi Son". She said barely
above a whisper.
My Mother died that next year.
She was only 54.
That was 46 years ago this month.
And yet, I still see her standing there.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
She stood as she always did,
at the sink in the tiny kitchen.
Wearing that apron,
with all the little red Tea Pots,
scattered around on a field
of white cotton.
Tied with a big bow in the back.
Gloved in yellow rubber,
to protect her hands and nails.
I stood a moment in the doorway
and we smiled at one another,
the way Mother's and half grown
children do.
Reflectively she reached up and
brushed back a brownish-blond
lock of hair that had straggled
down too close to her right eye.
A frequent and oft repeated
movement that always made
me smile.
I passed by her and briefly,
touched her shoulder,
As I went.
She patted my hand,
in a simple gesture of
returned implied affection,
Like we always did.
There was the sweet scent
Of Lilac hovering around her.
"Hi Son". She said barely
above a whisper.
My Mother died that next year.
She was only 54.
That was 46 years ago this month.
And yet, I still see her standing there.