Cultivation

Memories of her days take up space, pass the hours.

The dawn, red and burning. Thin stockings, muddy boots, cold pail handle, smooth udders.
Eyes shut against it all as she worked. By touch she came to know.

Seeds expertly sown with a blessing, a promise.
The cherished cart - adding modern convenience. Wheels grinding through the raw, heavy sod.
Father pushes forward with fierce determination - his face permanently frowned, but he is pleased with her.
Raking, pulling until she ached to her core.
Splinters from the day. Brother teasing her for being bothered by them.
Over time she learned to hide her hands - they looked like Franc's.

Now, she pulls the comfort of the shawl tighter around her and the child.
The wind blows off the water and carries her mother's, mati, voice -- strong, filled with faith and the music of her heart.