Mother’s Pocket
“Not your average peddler,” my mom was heard to say,
as she paid him for the prism that she promptly tucked away—
her pocket an oasis where my hand would go to play
when other things went wrong or on a sunless, rainy day.
In her pocket I found magic things—smooth stones that were magnetic.
Pulling them apart calmed hands otherwise frenetic.
Cherry-flavored Lifesavers and pretzels clothed in salt.
If they vanished from her pocket, it never seemed a fault.
Words written on grains of rice, hankies trimmed in lace
that I liked to hold against my lips and arms and face.
Tiny detached doll heads to put upon one’s fingers.
The memory of their spirited dialogues still lingers.
But that magic prism was the best of all her treasure.
Once I drew it from her pocket, I kept it for my pleasure.
Still it sits upon my shelf where it invites my gaze,
still transmitting mother’s light on sunless rainy days.
For RDP the prompt is Oasis
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 
This is so delightful. Memories of your childhood.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Love this – so whimsical and yet reassuring.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Fantastic. Brings back the TV moms in aprons with big patch pockets. Oh to be a girl again..
LikeLiked by 1 person
I was really lucky with the parents I wound up with. Sounds like you were, too.
LikeLiked by 1 person
There is a lovely lifetime in your words. Thank you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Ibeth
LikeLike
This is a glance of a life totally different from all I know and experienced.
LikeLike