Ritual
Sunday afternoon and my turn to kneel on the creaky yellow kitchen step stool and bow over the sink, unspool my locks into the clean pool, the white enamel basin. Two rust eyes blink from the bottom. I bend my neck for Mother's blessing. I might be clay. I might be dough. Her pulsing soap-slicked fingers sink and knead.
5 replies on “Ritual”
Such simple words evoking an avalanche of emotion and memories.
Thank you for the thoughtful read Ann Marie!
Brought back memories. Thank you
I love this poem Mary Beth. Congrats.
Emily
Beautiful. I particularly love the two rust eyes. I think that basin may still be in the kitchen closet on Runestone! Her hands were full of love weren’t they.