The scent of white musk would shelter me
As I clung, uneasily, to her broad waist
While with the tortoise-shell utensil
She smoothed my unruly, curly, blonde mane.
It would waft through the musty kitchen,
Fused with the smog of her turf smoke
And her appled-incense of our supper,
While she, working, flitted to and fro.
Today, her aroma settles in the living room,
Fleeting no more. The apples, no longer her own.
She rests and waits, watching us, trying to talk
Of the family and life she is irrevocably forgetting.
Author notes
Prompt: Fine-toothed comb
In a list
What do you think?
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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Loved this.
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Bittersweet the memories we have of passing days
Though sweeter now with passing time that takes the pain away
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Beautiful and sad. Poignant indeed and so relevant to so many of us. For me, being older, it is my parents who are starting down this road . . . I already watched my grandmother travel this way before. Of course, this may be our own fate one of these days . . . can we first forget to be sad?
Excellent.
Garrison
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Poignant and beautifully expressed. Great work, poet!
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This is just lovely!
This really paints a vivid picture! Thanks for the awesome entry.
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Wow, this is truly wonderfully deep. I love it. And I know that feeling that you poor in to here as well, very much so. This is a great write and very amazingly done. Keep up the great work.
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