Peeling Grapes
In my familiar kitchen, sunlight creeps,
My beautiful mother stands as the microwave beeps.
Paying no mind, her fingers are gentle as whispered grace,
They begin the strenuous task of peeling grapes.
No rush in her rhythm, she has no need to race,
Just love for me in this period of time and space.
The fruit beneath, translucent, bare,
Like the silly truths she used to share.
She cradles each grape with so much care,
Whilst uncovering each one with a simple tear.
As her practiced hands and patient eyes move,
There’s an urge that I have something to prove.
She peels away the bitter skin,
Leaving only the tender inside to give to her kin.
A labor small, unnoticed, sweet,
Leaving me to vow to always keep her on her feet.
Each peeled grape is a lullaby,
A mother’s love you can’t outgrow or buy.
Therefore, I will always love and care,
And by that I swear.