Someone comments that she’d never really worked. Not a proper job. Not a nine-to-five, sit down at a desk, shuffle the papers, count the numbers, find the words sort of job. She just ‘helped’ her parents in their shop, then ‘helped’ her husband. At Christmas my mother, her daughter, takes the carving knife. Skills become ingrained when you park a pram in the backroom of a butcher’s. They get passed down on generation to the next. Not always perfect, but present like the bark and callous of their hands when they take mine. Evidence of everything they’ve given. She says she never really worked a proper job, not a nine-to-five, like I have. Passes me the cutter for scones that won’t be as good as her mother’s, because she hasn’t got the knack like she had. She was only ever ‘helping’ not working, not like her daughter does, not like I do. She was only ever there in the background. Autumn is not Spring, but beauty still grows in her and there is worth there.
When I yanked, twisted, you came loose. Fallen, you held up your arms and wined like a child looking for their mother. I remember staring at you, head titled and cheeks still damp. I remember looking at you and wondering where I’d found beauty. Happy Monday readers! Tell me, could you write a piece in just 44 words? Why not give it a go with the rest of the lovelies at dVerse Poets Pub. Today’s theme is twist, so let’s twist and shake off any residual Monday blues. I’ve decided that this week is going to be super productive. I’ve done some studying tonight, I’ve worked on some poetry and I’ve still got a couple of hours before bed. That means I’ve hopefully got time to read some of the other Quadrilles over at dVerse, work on a poem for my work’s newsletter and get something down for NaPoWriMo Day Eighteen’s prompt ‘sounds from your childhood’. We’re off to a good start to the week.