[We begin with a poem that also has been titled "As a Child", -RocksWorks]
The Ritual
As a child,
I don’t remember ever seeing
my mother kiss a man.
Long after having become a mother myself
I saw her kiss her fifth husband, John,
and then only on the cheek
after he brought her
a bourbon and water, no ice,
their usual pre-dinner drink,
when she was in a hospital bed.
The nurse said, "Why not?"
John took a flask from his pocket,
poured a shot for her and one for himself,
put a dash of water in each
and handed one to her.
Mom reached up and pulled him close
by his jacket collar and kissed him.
The drink remained on a table by her bed all afternoon
while John held her hand.
The slanting rays of the sun through the blinds,
turned the glass a glowing transparent amber,
Through which,
from where I lay at the foot of her bed,
I could see the clock.
As a child,
I don’t remember ever seeing
my mother kiss a man.
Long after having become a mother myself
I saw her kiss her fifth husband, John,
and then only on the cheek
after he brought her
a bourbon and water, no ice,
their usual pre-dinner drink,
when she was in a hospital bed.
The nurse said, "Why not?"
John took a flask from his pocket,
poured a shot for her and one for himself,
put a dash of water in each
and handed one to her.
Mom reached up and pulled him close
by his jacket collar and kissed him.
The drink remained on a table by her bed all afternoon
while John held her hand.
The slanting rays of the sun through the blinds,
turned the glass a glowing transparent amber,
Through which,
from where I lay at the foot of her bed,
I could see the clock.
by Barbara Wolf
(c) 2007
(c) 2007
3 comments:
My throat was dry for wanting to drink from that glass, so lovingly filled. "Seeing" it sit vs., being poured down to quench, made me know it was the gesture...the risk a loved one would take to comfort their other in a time of ill health.
Your writing takes me to that room...thank you for letting me share in this private slice of precious time.
can't wait to read more
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