[hey poet, tell me a story] or, #6 Mending Things

Only one more poem to go after this one! To catch up on the previous parts, click here. 🙂

~

“Why are you awake?”

Mama’s words drift back over her shoulder

through the circle of lamplight

into the darkness of where I’m standing,

barefoot, in the doorway. 

~

“Can’t sleep.” I say.

~

What I don’t say

is that I’ve been lying there listening

to the silence of Mama listening,

waiting for the front door to open,

for the familiar footsteps to fumble in

for the voice tinged with moon shine

to hum absentmindedly in the dark

just like he used to.

~

I don’t say that.

~

I just pad on over to her rocking chair,

lay my head on her shoulder,

watch her needle flashing in and out

as she mends my faded, dust brown calico

again.

~

Mama’s good at mending things.

~

But some things are harder to mend than others.

~

Come back next week for the final part of this poetic story! I’d love to hear your thoughts on it so far in the comments!