My mother leans on her walker, from her arm
dangle four knitted snowflakes.
Nice placemats! I say.
Nice placemats! I say.
NO!...NO!! THEY ARE DOILIES!
She shrieks as if the word placemat scalds her.
You like them? -- in her voice such hope.
Yes I do. Only half a lie.
The knitting's well done, the pattern believable,
and I can feel the red in my gut.
The knitting's well done, the pattern believable,
and I can feel the red in my gut.
But the snowflakes stay in the bottom
drawer for decades
until last night when I place them
under plates at my party.
under plates at my party.
These doilies are lovely, someone remarks and
I want to jump from my chair and dance
for my mother and for this guest who deserves
these doilies more than I but I just
can't part with them.
I want to jump from my chair and dance
for my mother and for this guest who deserves
these doilies more than I but I just
can't part with them.
