Tight grip of small
fingers grasping
at Mama’s dress,
pulling, following
everywhere, little eyes
looking up, whimpering,
filled with pleading
to be picked up.
Mama never stopped moving
or looked down except
to say,
“hush child.”
So long ago were
those tugs on
her dress, hanging on
for dear life as she
moved about the kitchen,
flitting here and there,
pots clanging pots,
blue flames of fire
top the stove causing
aromas to boil over
into the air and drift
down to where I
clung to her dress, my
eyes filled with tears and
begging attention.
Tight grip of
small fingers
now upon my
pant leg as my
grandchild pulls
at me, whimpering.
“ Hush child” I say as
I reach down and
pick him up.
The whimpering stops,
the pinch of my
pant slowly
returns to normal.
On days like these
I cannot bare to
think of Mama,
less my whimpering
begins again.
