When we were young

I see my mother,
washing the curtains.
Silently humming to herself.
Her hands move rhythmically,
as a woman who has done this,
many times.
She must hurry,
and chase the sun while its still high,
else we will sleep without curtains.
She hangs them artistically,
like a producer adding that
last final touch to a record.
Then she makes lunch for;
father, brother, sister and me.
The smells from the kitchen are so familiar.
Paleche, morogo and cow meat.
I see my mother;
provider of nourishment,
cleaning lady,
nurse to us when we are ailing
chauffeur to drive us around,
entertainer when we are bored
my father’s confidant,
my hero.
The curtains are dry now,
She takes them down and puts them up in the house.
Relief washes over her face,
We will sleep with curtains in the house.
She hums to herself as she does the dishes.

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