“Get that in ye,” Ma would say. A hearty casserole—her answer to everything.
My teenage whining quit by the chop of the cleaver, the slice of her tongue. She’d no time to stop with all our mouths to feed.
No time to listen.
All I needed was a reassuring hug, some soothing words, a little understanding. But that wasn’t Ma’s way, so I found sympathy in the arms of another.
“I’ve got something to tell you, Ma,” I said, guiding her to a kitchen chair, taking the knife from her hand.
This time I’d be the one making comfort food.
Slice of her tongue. Great imagery.
Thanks Sharon.