The pot-bellied stove threw little heat,
Beyond the confines of the kitchen.
So to Mama’s lap she would retreat,
And from knee to knee she’d keep switching.
Mama’s arthritis made her legs ache,
Even though she would never complain,
So her daughter changed knees for her sake,
Whenever she sensed her Ma in pain.
She’d snuggle there, beneath Mama’s shawl,
A cozier place there never was.
Beside her, an old raggedy doll,
Its red hair now worn to tattered fuzz.
Her favorite spot on winter days,
When the wind sought every small crack,
Whistling in from outside someways,
To visit each corner of the shack.
The shawl, her security blanket,
Her Ma, a fortress against the world,
And no power on Earth could yank it
From the shoulders of Mama’s sweet girl.
Mama passed away at eighty-three,
Her sixty year old daughter was there.
Each thread in the shawl a memory
That she and her own children would share.
Read RickMack's latest poem (Daisy Mae) and see his latest
original cartoon at 'Time On My Hands'. Click HERE.
© RickMack (firstname.lastname@example.org)