Mother

I don’t think she ever drank gin in the morning. Perhaps she should have. Her oatmeal stuck to your ribs and anything else it touched. Her apron, the ultimate multitasking tool, wiped up after…. well…. everything. God, she looked beautiful. Housecoat, inverted socks for slippers, a cigarette smoldering on the kitchen table, four kids building oatmeal castles. She hated the new wringer washing machine. It had developed a taste for her arm. Gin in the morning? wouldn’t have helped. ©2/16/2018 submitted to – Gin in the Morning – Poetry Contest sponsor – Julia Ward