Fine Linen Stained With The Years.

Fine linen stained with tears


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.

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