nights, not many, but some,
I would go to bed hungry,
in the sparsely-furnished back room, cold and
How my tummy-growls would worry Mama,
as she tried to fall asleep with Daddy in the
Peanuts for supper again --
Mama would ration the home-canned vegetable
praying she could stretch them until garden
Daddy'd not sold a log in weeks.
Flour and lard were hard to come by;
she'd use those only for the breakfast meal.
Shivering in the darkness
of a harsh, post-Depression night,
thinking about Mama's special chocolate-frosted
my young taste buds
would rise up and painfully yearn
for their warm, soft, sugary goodness.
Mercifully, God would close our eyes
until the morning, when we would awaken,
thankful for hard-tack biscuits
and push-back gravy, just right for sopping.
Copyright © 1995 Ruth Gillis
in Lucidity 2002
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