I have been always amazed by how much work my Grandma and mother did without the modern conveniences we all have today. No matter how much work they had, they always managed to have love for their families. This poem is for them:
He hands were
always warm and
soft against my
skin, but they
had a different
smell each day.
After a day
of making stew,
The impossible to
wash off smell
of onions lingered.
Apple pie days
left her hands
with the smell
of cinnamon and
nutmeg. Wash day
would leave scents
of soap and bleach.
Each day may
have produced a
new scent, but
the love always
remained, never fading
to be replaced
the following day.
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