Grace, Under Pressure

The Future? I sure hope not!

Salon Z

She woke her mother and helped her up from bed
cooing soothingly to the protesting woman
whose gray hair had worked almost entirely free of the careful plait
her daughter had patiently woven the night before
bathroom to the small table in the kitchen
they ate oatmeal
the daughter coaxing the mother to take her four pills
spoon another bite of beige towards the angry slash of her mouth

The only somewhat wrinkled but agile mother did not like morning
she did not like being woken in the dark
and forced from her nest of thermal blankets
she didn’t like using the bathroom
she did not like oatmeal
or this table
or this shapless woman across from her always making her do
this person who called herself daughter
reminding her, always, Grace

The dressing match yet ahead
Grace left the table to first tend their canary
found the yellow fluff…

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About sandrabranum

I'm a philosopher, dreamer, poet, writer -- not necessarily in that order -- and I get to write it all down and share it with the world thanks to the Wonderful World Wide Web!
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