She smiled as she dusted
the framed photographs
on the old oak credenza,
sang as she swept the kitchen floor,
even Lysoled the bathroom bowl
Humming a spirited hymn, the woman
rolled pastry into a ten inch circle.
She sliced Granny Smiths, brandishing
the sleek, shiny blade with flourish.
Spontaneous praise proceeded from her lips
as she turned the hearty roast
and added onions, carrots and peeled potatoes
to the simmering juices in the pan.
She set the dining room table
with the good dishes,
the good flatware,
her very best linen,
and a milk glass bowl
filled with gold edged roses
from the Mother’s Day gift bush
blooming bountifully in the front yard.
Her feet ached, but her eyes sparkled.
This was among life’s highest joys:
Her adult children would soon be at the door
bringing hugs and tales and laughter
and she would get to serve them Sunday dinner.