At seven, I sat on a towel in front of the freezer
with the blow dryer, a sponge and a bucket
to earn money for a new plastic recorder.
Oh, how I wanted that reward.
So for hours, I switched the blow dryer
from one hand to the other, inwardly fussy,
wishing mom would just buy it for me.
How enormous the task seemed then.
When that brown recorder
finally came in a beige vinyl pouch,
I played “Hot Cross Buns” like I meant it.
I blew “Ode to Joy” in bright torture through the house,
and mangled “Mary Had a Little Lamb,”
but oh was I happy.
Now, scrubbing my parent’s refrigerator
I see how the tables have turned,
how the work becomes its own reward.
Decades of my parent’s love and sacrifice
bring me to this moment, when,
kneeling in front of the fridge,
sponge in hand, bucket beside me,
I feel like the luckiest woman alive,
Mom going through the cupboards beside me,
humming “Love is Blue,” perhaps a little out tune,
but oh, she is happy, so happy.
