Our roots are so far gone,
I am not sure how to even find them.
The discipline of my Nene and mother’s generation are
so lost on me that I am not sure how to even return to it.
The gift of cooking from scratch while tending to the garden,
hanging out laundry, and mopping floors while on all fours
is only a story I remember being told about.
It seems like a full schedule of domestic labor would create confusion,
but I think it just might add simplicity.
Flour dusted on the counters and little people waiting at the oven with delight in their eyes.
Satisfaction that brings sweetness to a momma’s heart.
The swollen cheeks, puffed up with a momma’s hard work.
Seems simple enough to me.