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.
Creative Writing Class for Grades 10-12
14 years ago
What a beautiful poem. I can relate to this on so many levels -- as a little girl, as an adult remembering back to the day, and as a parent with my own child. How amazing that you have managed to touch all three of my personas in one poem!
ReplyDeleteI think part of what works with your poem, and the reason it can reach me on so many different levels, is the way you switch between present the present and the past, often without switching tenses. Specifically, in stanza two, when you reflect on her green grading pen *then* and the one you use *now" we understand immediately that you are looking back, but doing so skillfully through the eyes of the young girl.
I love the sentiment, as well. Every child needs the comfort of feeling like she is the only person in the world -- the only thing that matters to her parents. You did a beautiful job getting the importance and meaningfulness of this across.