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curled up in Mama's lap,
a mountain child wrapped in a quilt
to take a morning nap.
Metal blinds tap-tapping
as cool air comes wafting in;
my eyes grow heavy as I hear
the distant murmuring of men.
Books under flanneled arms,
and walking down the hill,
they're off to class while I get drowsy,
questions slowly stilled.
Do the boys have class with Daddy?
When's my own sweet Becky home?
For lunch, a Town House apple pie?
I would really, really like some.
Mama answers quietly until I fall asleep
then, middle-aged and grateful, again I am awake,
reflecting on the lovely trips (in dreams, at least), I take.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015
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