My mother was a warrior,
wielding wooden spoons
like weapons of mass construction.

We four would tug on her apron,
tell her how pretty she was
so we could have more pancakes.

She would laugh and chase us
down the hall, a giantess
with crazy wood appendages.

Now she is simply small and fragile,
spoons at rest, hands clutching an afghan.
She naps in the heat of the day,

dreaming of her own warrior mother;
I pull the blanket over bony shoulders
and push silver hair behind her ear.

Copyright © 2013 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved


About cjchaffin

Wordsmithing is my passion. I eat, sleep, and breathe words and phrases, only to regurgitate them and pray that they are better off than when I first ingested them.
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2 Responses to mother

  1. dtdeedge says:

    mother is the vessel of love,
    from which I drank,
    consumed the love,
    and refilled with pain.
    oh, would that I could
    refill all that I have been give.

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