My mother taught me to love stories
by telling me stories. In them
she played a starring role, like
the time the gypsies came and pitched
their tents in a nearby field
and she, at home alone with her
younger sisters, gathered them, like
a hen tucking her chicks under
her wings,and herded them all
to an upstairs closet where they
sat in shivery silence till their
parents came home. She said
they laughed when she
tried to tell them, through tears
of relief, how afraid she had been.
I thought they should have praised
her for being so brave, so clever.
I think she thought so too.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment