Gentle
The day my mother takes her final rest, I will bathe in my own stream. Boiling lava will melt my heart. Her pictures on the living room wall will be a constant reminder that she never pushed me out of the nest.
Perhaps my instincts will kick in once dinner is not on the stove and those phone calls stop coming in. She is the first to wake up and the last to sleep. If she were a pitcher, every glass would be filled and she would always be empty.
Her short coarse black curls are thinning. Her muscles are weakening. Her eyelids are drooping. Her sighs are heavy with fatigue. Her strained voice at the expense of me and my two brothers seems to have given up. Her name is Rose and her favorite color is pink. Like a flower, she is ever so delicate and in need of constant watering. She has told me that she works harder at home than at her job.
I once teased her, saying that when she does die, her spirit will remain to do her daily chores. She giggled, but I managed to contain mine. With those gentle, yet rough hands, she nursed and rocked me to sleep. Those same hands she raises to the heavens for God to do his will.
Her life has been a barefoot walk on rocky soil and I wish I could if only for one day, sit her under the breeze of a palm tree where she can drink a tall glass of iced water and receive a gentle massage.
Marckincia Jean
Free verse
07/22/19
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