Poetry Posting

I wake up, the house quiet
It's the middle of the night for me
A small child. From under the crack of the door
the kitchen light peers into my bedroom.

My mother sits at the table.
A cream colored afghan is wrapped around her
Small shoulders. In her hand is a green grading pen.
It looks just like the one I use now.

Hoping to delay being sent to bed, I offer to fill her coffee.
I carry the pot, looking down at the sloshing brown liquid
That laps the sides. Her mug was white with blue angels.
I pour the steaming sledge but miss the mug.

Instead, a surprising, searing, pain grasps my hand.
It's the confusing pain of a burn, one I saw before I felt.
Before I can react arms swoop me up and race me to the sink.
My feet kick in pain, suspended above the floor.

Back in her chair, I bury my face into the neck
Of her crew neck sweatshirt. Sobs shake loose
From my stomach. Her cool hands brush tears from my hot, red cheeks.

I still have the scar on my left hand.
An ever present reminder of the night mother
Left her work to comfort me like I was the only person
In her world.