Lazy Mother

On Saturdays we donned our cleaning clothes, 
armed ourselves with lemon furniture polish, 
a mixture of vinegar and water, old t-shirts 
mom deemed too ratty for regular wear 
cut into rags, and music blaring through 
our well used boombox.  

And when the house was dubbed ‘good enough’ 
(though, it was always spic and span), 
we made loaves of bread, cookies, pots of soup, 
and fried off ground hamburger seasoned with salt and pepper.  
Which we then packaged into portions 
and placed in the freezer for later use.  

On Sundays we woke early to start Lunch,  
showered, ate peanut butter and bananas for breakfast, 
then went to church for several hours.  
I don’t recall a single Sunday when I felt rested 
as I sat in the pew by my mother 
trying not to drown in the guilt of the week. 

What I’m trying to say is that sometimes, 
now that I am a whole, grown woman, 
I do the opposite of what is ingrained in my bones: 
I let my floors stay unvacuumed while I drink 
early Saturday, rain-soaked breeze and revel 
in the feel of sleepy limbs waking slowly.