Kneading

by Brett Rutherford

Her hands never tire,
    although the pain is there,
a constant throb.

She kneads the dough.
It has to be done.
The hungry ones are used
to her white bread
with its crackly crust
like no other
     (lard folded in was one
          of her mother’s secrets,
     the rest a keen sense
of how long to keep on kneading).

Someone will bring
     the turkey, the pies.
Every last plate and cup
    will be found and used.

How many times today
she did her two-bucket
walk and back
    to the nearby spring,
how full the slop-pail would get
as she peeled the potatoes,
how long she’d hold it
before she had to trudge
to the outhouse and back:
who would number such things,
as frequent as the ticks
    and tocks
from the grandfather clock?

She hears it chime three.
They’d be coming soon,
and here she stands
all covered with flour,
hands greased with lard,
and still in her house-coat.

She goes to the closet.
Three things hang there.
The new dress,
    the old dress
for when it didn’t matter,
and the coat.

The old dress will have to do.

After all, nobody was dying.