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