Tamara Willems

saving grace…

This morning my hand feels as if it’s being
painfully against its will
its been overworked
a day off, I am sunk into my chair of comfort
reading about the brain
and how it works
while across from me he goes from paper
to book, to shopping for wood-fired pizza ovens
today being our ‘most-of-the-day-together’ day
before he heads off to work
while outside voices are rattling about the loud-mouthed buffoon next door
I share a sly smile for a great lady of integrity who stands her ground

at the grocery store a loud horn sounds
and we turn to the car just to the left of us
where an elderly lady is waving for attention
can you help me, she says
a rather annoyed woman looks at her crossly
and continues walking
as my husband and I approach her open window
can you move those carts, she says quite sternly
pointing to the handicap parking spaces littered with abandoned shopping carts,
I have to park there
sure I say to her with a smile and immediately move to gather up the carts
(a personal pet peeve with me anyway this lazy inconsideration)
gruffly she sighs, I’m sorry to ask again, I’m tired of this
slowly she starts to ease her way to the parking space
while a woman in a big truck deems herself in more of a hurry and pulls in front
this lovely feisty old dear continues advancing forcing truck lady
back her truck
six or seven angry looking faces watch this bit of calamity
manifesting communal inconvenienced
one woman mutters her way into the store
just ahead of us
as I
smile wide
didn’t take but a minute of my or my husband’s time
and really, when does one not respond to someone asking
for help
people are funny, I guess…

back at home
in the kitchen, he’s whipped up some pizza crusts
so that I will have ease
when it comes to dinner time
I ask him if he knows how lucky he is
to have me
not the least bit phased by my cheek,
says he knows about this
I give his hair a quick trim, he showers and dresses for work
I fix his collar and savour a kiss
knowing well, the luck
is all mine

I find the balm for sore hands is kneading a batch
of cinnamon buns
and stopping in a wintry garden to look at something

such is love
my saving grace

(and much better than politics)

some days the love songs
just seem to find me … ♥

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