MOMMA'S LOVE

Every day mama rose early in the morning
to don her clothing in the dusty darkness
Angry aching joints cracked and snapped
with each  movement as she pulled her clean
flour sack dress over her head.  Life must go on.

I'd wake to the sound of the old cistern pump
squeaking as momma drew water for the
black iron kettle she used to do laundry
Acrid smelling smoke wafted through the open window
from dried cow chips burning hot beneath the kettle.

The rub-a-dubbing of momma scrubbing clothes
on the bleached out washboard using home-made
lye soap, made tears well in my eyes. Soon, she would
light the smoky coal oil lamp and prepare breakfast
before starting her back breaking work day. Life must go on.

The dry hinges of the old screen door grind open.
I squeeze ray eyes shut to stem the flow of tears,
tears of hate--for this harsh life, hate towards a God that
would allow such a life and yes hate towards momma for
bringing me into such a life.  Each morning I hated all.

I grew up despising that life of a momma forced to work
the scorching cotton and corn fields. I despised the
harsh summers and the stark living conditions which I
fought so hard to escape. Now sixty years later momma
is no longer with us. I am so lonely. Life utast go on

I escaped that harsh life vowing never to return, only to
find another equally harsh life, a life nobody could predict.
Life itself is unpredictably harsh. I still hate. I am still lonely,
but the world still revolves.  Life must go on.  Now I think I
understand. I did not know then but momma's labor is MOMMA'S LOVE.
Live must go on.

Clifford L. Barnard