Ketchup

Ketchup: Free Verse

I am so relieved to give my tired feet a rest.
I wonder if the ketchup I'm making will be edible;
I hear echoes of my aunt telling my dad, "I couldn't wait for Ma's ketchup to run out. I hated that stuff."
I see my grandmothers garden in my mind's eye, her hoeing in the midst of it, and
I want to raise a garden just like hers, filled with red currants, delicious tomatoes, and tender carrots.
I am on my own in this; my grandmother has gone on to a different kind of harvest.

I pretend I'm self-sufficient, but I know that's a joke.
I feel inadequate; the Amish and Mennonite women in my neighborhood, like my grandmother, put up peaches, can corn, toil over tomatoes. They hang out their handmade clothes every Monday, gather to clean each other's houses, have a support system about which it exhausts me even to dream.
I touch the Victoria Strainer borrowed from a friend, plunge the tomatoes into its mouth and turn the crank, listening to the noises that come from it that sound like a scene from Willy Wonka. I think about the seasons of harvest that have passed through its sieve.
I worry about this ketchup, whether it will be edible, whether I, too, will have a child who says, "I can't wait until Mom's ketchup is gone. I hate that stuff."
I cry for the mother that I once had, over the times I, too, said, "I hate this stuff."
I am ashamed. I am a motherless daughter now.

I understand what my children do not, and they understand what I do not.
I say that it's important to treasure every moment, yet I know that I spend too much time worrying, crying and complaining.
I dream of the day when my kitchen will stay clean, when my floor will stay swept, when the toys will not trip me in the night.
I try to push the dream away, to appreciate where I am, right now.
I hope that my ketchup will be edible, that my grandmother's harvest is plentiful, that my children's toys will trip me in the night, that I will learn to be content.
I am a mother, a daughter, a granddaughter, and I am learning what that means.

*This is a poem written using a template that was posted on Hind's Feet's blog. Why don't you try it, too, and send me a note in my comments when you're done?

I am
I wonder
I hear
I see
I want
I am

I pretend
I feel
I touch
I worry
I cry
I am

I understand
I say
I dream
I try
I hope
I am