It has been a whirlwind week, which has included two visits and an overnight at the emergency animal hospital for our beloved dog Denver. I am spent, so am sharing a poem I wrote last year around mother’s day.
When I cut an apple I think of my mother’s hands. She would sometimes cut one long peel, that would dangle like a slinky above the trash can. And once discarded, she would use the same small knife to slice each piece; her thumbs and fingers gripping the fruit, using elegant and magical knife-work to cut away the core as if it took no effort at all. And onto the small plate she’d place the crispy half-moons; handing them to me, I’d sit in our sun soaked kitchen enjoying each bite. And now, all these years later I relive that memory, this ancestral history, through the same simple act. A ritual to my mother’s, and her mother’s, and her Oma’s hands.