MY DAUGHTER’S HOUSE


This just appeared in my mail one day,
sent to me by my Mother.

The feelings odd.
She stops to pass the tea
And cookies in the little fluter plate
My mother used to use,
and, smilingly,
Admits that, though the hour’s
growing late (The children will be home
from school at three),
She hopes I’ll stay to tell her if I think
The drapes will suit,
And there’s that recipe I’d promised her....
I share the smallest wink
(A secret one) with - oh, whatever god
Designed this moment long ago and knew
That it would come to pass,
The years were hard,
The mothering. This daughter, as she grew,
Stretched both of us to lengths that clearly we
Could hardly bear sometimes for aching lack
Of patience, wisdom, grace,
“I’d love more tea!”
She smiles and fills my cup.
And I smile back.


Maureen Cannon