By Teresa McLamb Blackmon
She walked to our house as if on a track
that guided her and kept her straight to work
in our home, in our kitchen, at our ironing board.
She slipped in the door and did her job quietly.
If she felt she didn’t belong there, she was wrong.
She was so loved by
three people and a puppy whose habits
she knew: Daddy’s dirty brogans left at the door,
the puppy’s shredded toys, my clothes-covered
closet. She became my mother.
She was the one who doctored
my skinned knees and let me lick the spoon
after the chocolate pies she made. She prepared
our meals but never sat at the table with us.
It torments me now.
I want to go to her house, eat with her
at her table. I want to bake a pie for her, cut a slice,
top it with ice cream, and watch her taste
the memories of our time together.
Teresa McLamb Blackmon is a retired English teacher who lives in rural North Carolina. Her first poetry book comes out in August, 2020.