Flour On Your Hands

Sunday light through a kitchen door, the kettle's on like always before. You kept a drawer of broken crayons for every kid who wandered in, warmed the teapot twice — your one rule — and let us lick the rolling pin. The radio hummed old hymns at seven, bread rising somewhere, always bread — half my childhood smells like your kitchen, warm yeast and lavender. They gave you one day in May — as if one day could hold it. Happy Mother's Day, Grandma — you earned it twice, you know. Once for the babies you rocked at midnight, once for the babies of babies you didn't let go. The flour on your hands says everything — you never stopped, you never will. You showed up to every recital with butterscotch deep in your purse, clapped the loudest, left the earliest so Mom could have it first. You stitched our names in winter blankets, crooked letters, perfect love — you'd call it nothing much at all. It was never nothing much. They gave you one day in May — so we're giving you the morning. Happy Mother's Day, Grandma — you earned it twice, you know. Once for the babies you rocked at midnight, once for the babies of babies you didn't let go. The flour on your hands says everything — you never stopped, you never will. Someday I'll warm the teapot twice for a kid who isn't mine, and somebody small will ask me why — I'll say a great lady taught me that line. Happy Mother's Day, Grandma — you earned it twice, you know. Once for the babies you rocked at midnight, once for the babies of babies you didn't let go. The flour on your hands says everything — you never stopped, you never will. Sunday light through a kitchen door — stay right there. We're coming over.