Fine Linen Stained With The Years.
Fine linen stained with tears
©-MFB III
Fine linen tablecloths
stained with years
gravy spots,
and various juices served,
several cigarette holes
and a lipstick smear.
All folded now and tucked
neatly away in the drawer
by the hamper in the hall
back when we had so much more.
i don't have the heart
to dispose of them
they held so much
that was hearty
each chronicles
her labors of love.
Mom presented great
stories on that linen,
spelled out in alphabits,
where we minded our peas
and her cues to always
say blessing before digging in.
She offered us meaty tales
that had juicy endings,
beneath each flowery
rectangle cover.
We all spilled the beans
many a night there,
changing famine to family
as five ravenous Kids
devoured many chapters
of her cookbooks.
She served us love
in covered cassoroles,
and we gobbled it down,
in a hurry to get back to the play
that all kids star in.
Each linen is an archive
of seasons long past
some speckled with bits of glitter
from Christmas Centerpieces,
or spots of pastel dyes
from many Easter eggs dipped.
Mom is gone now
all of her brightness faded
like her treasured cloths
and Dad's in a
nursing home this year.
But her linen remains
much like the Shroud of Turin
or should I say
her Shroud of Tureen.
Each is stained
by her loving efforts
and sacrifice,
polka dotted with
the marks of her
spuds, suds, sweat and tears
that bled priceless
residues of her
impeccable love.
