The Anchor

 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