Thoughts on Returning to 7th Street

I remember the smell,
the wood groaning beneath the weight
of my mother’s feet as she
went about her day.

It was always chicken on Tuesday
With macaroni and green beans
and plastic cups of lemonade.
Times were simple. That was all
that I had ever known, no glamour,
no shine, just dinner at seven.
She always paid close attention
to detail. One fourth cup of sugar,
two pinches of salt, and a teaspoon
of brown sugar to keep the kids happy.
She never cried. Like a tree house with
nothing inside, she stood tall. I wanted
to ask her why, but I wouldn’t understand.

Her hands moved victoriously
over everything she handled. I always watched
in awe as she made something from nothing.
I remember she cut herself with an old pearing
knife no bigger than my six year old thumb. She just
smiled and reminded me to be careful
no matter what I did.
I wish I would have listened.