Grandma’s sticky berries

Not Mykolas the messy one.
Blame the sticky berries of Grandma.
After their “attack,” the eater himself, looking in the mirror, had to admit: “Oh, yuck, POOP.”

And so the day spins on like a washing machine’s mill.
And the vacuums hum, cloths sway in graceful arcs.
And every time, I line up the laundry to “wash.”
Then—dry.
Then—fold.
Then—sort.
During the small breaks between tasks, I manage to sigh:
“How hard it is to be a mom.”

And then, embarrassed, I think:
“After all, in our childhoods, we weren’t cleaner, and we weren’t less greedy for sticky berries.”

Only all the everyday helpers
were “bowls” and hands that knew everything.
From memory, they appear—seemingly never tired.

V.

#motherhood #childhood