Down in the kitchen she served,
bent over the stove,
stirring her pot of stew.
Those were the dreams
that filled her days,
from sunrise to sunset.
Down in the kitchen she served,
at home near her post;
a life of her own choosing.
A basket of kittens--of which she was fond--
lived beneath her feet.
Down in the kitchen, her fingertip went missing;
scorched too many times on the fire.
Twas dipped in iodine,
and wrapped in a rag;
a close call the doctor reported.
Down in the kitchen she passed;
her sweet head bowed as a curtsy.
Contentment she wore
like a fine lacy glove;
in the kitchen, the place of her dreams.
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Author Notes
This is based on my maternal grandmother, Mabel Shewell. She was the mother and grandmother to many. My mother said she lost several children to stillbirth, and a few babies did not make it past two. My mother, June, was one of the eight grown. She said her mother lived in the kitchen from morning to night. My grandmother died of a brain aneurysm while sitting in the kitchen.
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