Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
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Rated: E · Other · Personal · #1799041
remembering Mom
I hear your music playing in my dreams
nurturing sounds:
the rhythmic swish, swish, swish
of the wringer washing machine;
the buzz clack, clack, clack,
of the electric sewing machine
making outfits for special occasions
and pajamas, nightgowns, shirts, and dresses –
(how many I wonder?)

the delicate click, click, click
of knitting needles –
a sweater a year and more,
not only for each of the six of us
but for great aunts, grandnieces, and friends –
(how many I wonder?)

and most comforting of all
the clatter and conversation from the kitchen
of you and Dad washing dishes
after we were all in bed.

I hear the hiss I hated so
of pressure canning on the stove,
then in the evening
the rhythm of your voice reading
Mother West Wind tales,
Kipling, Robert Louis Stevenson –
story after story filling our growing heads.

Your voice still shouts warnings
into my aging ear
though you've been gone these many years.
I dream of you able to see again 
no more wheelchair- free
holding dad's hand
together once more
murmuring in my sleeping ears.

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