Domestic Routine Poem by Lorna Billanes

In the half-light,
she steps out into the chill of dawn,
her shawl tight around her.
Slightly stooped and weighed down
by an ache that makes her old,
she whistles softly
to banish all memories of ghosts.
Her mind wanders off to tasks
both routine and mundane:
the trek to her favorite baker
and later, to the stalls
for a week's ration of condiments,
seasonings and staples.
At mid-morning, a bounty of fresh produce
awaits her skillful hands.
Would the legumes need sauteing
Or are they better off steamed?
Once grilled, would the fish excite the palate
and the eggs when buttered and creamed,
would they be more worthy of praise?
These questions she ponders
as she regards her young ones at play.

Even as she gives in
to an ache deep in her belly,
she brushes it off
when she remembers
the quilt that needs mending,
drapes waiting to be laundered,
ironed, and stored;
mementos to be dusted
later to be kept away-
and her young ones who are no less fragile
than the china in her cupboard.
Tasks diverse and routine-
they banish all memories of pain.