My mother stands in the doorway, her <br />back arched beneath the pressure of wind- <br />she beats the rug until, dust encircles her. <br />She wipes her brow, tugs at the scarf <br />she wears around her neck to <br />catch the sweat- the coil <br />of thread and color lays limp <br />in her fist. <br /> <br />My father sits at the kitchen table, <br />doodling our future on his yellow, Mead pad- <br />drawing figures and graphs, he deciphers <br />the puzzle of numbers that has become <br />the essential language of our survival- <br />then he begins to tap the pen against the paper, <br />an uncoordinated rhythm that <br />always seems to make my mother nervous- <br />she turns from the business of cleansing, <br />he taps his coffee cup once against <br />the rustic dining table- she looks at it, <br />studies it as if it were a glimpse into <br />the legacy, she has, for one moment, set down- <br />stepped away from the proverbial <br />role of wife, and became goddess like- <br /> <br />This cup that sits before her, embodies the tyranny <br />of every Titan she’s destroyed- and when <br />she takes it between her delicate fingers, <br />lifting it from his grasp, with every intention of <br />mangling it- <br />he looks up at her with a faint smile- <br /> <br />and she, after having the thought <br />of throwing his favorite cup <br />against the wall, just to watch it <br />shatter into a thousand pieces, <br />that would pierce his heart- she nods, <br />pours one more day of devotion into it- <br />holds it with all her might, <br />presses her lips to the rim <br />to sip the excess....cradles it <br />between both hands- <br /> <br />Then as though her shoulders <br />hadn’t buckled beneath <br />the pressure of his world: <br />gives it back to him....lets it go.<br /><br />Amberlee Carter<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-labor-of-love/
