Writing Prompt 15

It’s the fifteenth day of our 30/30!

We’re halfway there, friends. How are you feeling? Have you been able to find time every day? Do you think a few of your responses will turn into poems?

Your prompt today is:

 

My mother’s hands
Alternatively: my mother’s eyes

 

 

Image credit www.cliparts.co
Guidelines, if you want them:

  • Posting your response is not required
  • Feel free to post your response   🙂
  • This is not meant to be the perfect first draft – respond without hesitation for 5-7 minutes, then keep going if you want to
  • While our prompts are geared towards poetry, we welcome all kinds of artists
  • Tips & encouragement are here
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3 comments

  1. Common and quick, like house wrens,
    my mother’s hands could type eighty words a minute
    on an old Underwood typewriter.
    Her long narrow fingers went basically unadorned
    except for the simple engagement ring/wedding band duo.
    She wasn’t much into polish because her hands
    were working hands – type, groom, cook, clean.
    The strength was not only present in those eighty words
    but also when she brushed and combed,
    braided and pin-curled my hair, my sister’s hair.
    Sometimes the tug and pull seemed harsh,
    yet over time I knew they were doing the job well,
    grooming that kept her little girls pretty, without hair in their eyes.
    Her hands could pull a Radio Flyer
    filled with two little girls to the corner grocery.
    Her hands made the best lemon meringue pie and blueberry muffins.
    Her hands scoured sinks and toilets with Comet,
    washed and hung clothes out to dry before dryers did the job.
    Her hands loved to cradle and embrace infants
    as she paced them, rocking back and forth, to rest.
    Her hands were the ordinary, exceptional hands of so many mothers,
    of my mother.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. The Universal Bread Maker was a bucket,
    almost five gallons deep, like the chipped
    enamel ones we used for the chickens.
    Come Friday, mother would load it with
    proofed yeast, warm milk, the endless
    cups of flour, and we’d begin to turn
    the big crank handle. It was like making
    ice cream (which I’d heard about from
    the neighbors); you’d crank forever
    before anything exciting would happen.

    Making bread was like that. But finally,
    after two risings, she’d grab the hook
    and hoist out the six-loaf batch, and
    plop it on the floured board. Divide the
    dough, set it under dishtowels and begin
    to knead. The same way she threw
    biscuits together in the morning, she could
    roll and fold the dough until it squeaked
    and glistened, ready for a final resting then
    she’d form loaves and place them in the
    matching pans. Her hands glowing from
    knowing just how to work the dough.

    later, we’d cut heels from the wheat loaves
    and slather them with butter and honey.
    She’d wield the knife and slice a loaf for
    morning toast. Never wore nail polish,
    hated gloves. Just used her hands until
    one day, they were used up.

    Liked by 1 person


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