The Anchor
Home is Mother
silhouetted behind kitchen screen
as sister and I ran through sprinkler
soothing sunburnt skin,
or sat, shaded on porch,
playing pick up sticks and crazy eights.
Monopoly's test of endurance
challenged camaraderie;
squabbles brought
Her voice upon High
warning "nap time".
We'd plead for lenience,
and from behind her confessional
she often showed mercy.
For an hour or so each day,
not classical but soap opera
theme songs floated from windowsill
as 'round flowerbeds
we spun and danced;
little ballerinas we,
awaiting her voice telling us
the 'sabbatical" was over.
Remember the summer
a single sunflower grew and grew
and grew beside the lamppost.
"A bird must've dropped a seed," she said
with a voice reserved for miracles.
At night we'd peer out Mother's window,
see "feathered" face turned eastward,
itself a softly glowing orb.
Childhood memories
often bring me to tears. Why?
People take a second glance
as I sit upon "dedicated" bench,
almost crying. Not unhappy,
but grateful I have learned
to settle into yesteryear's moments,
feel front yard's grass
beneath my feet, journey home,
sister and I everything to each other,
Mother our blessed anchor.
poem & collage by Margaret Bednar, October 24, 2022
