Water Cup |
Issue 6
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Sunday morning. Church.
Mom stands next to me until she sits And I sense that somethings wrong She whispers over me to my father Asks for a cup of water I keep singing but the words Are blank notes and letters I’m thinking about my mom next to me Singing stops and we sit I touch her lightly on the shoulder Once maybe twice Then try and focus on the readings Ignore her next to me Until she fumbles with the little silver pill capsule Her clear painted nails reflect the light, shaking She’s getting a beta blocker-- I could lean over and whisper, “Are you ok?” (Even though I know she’s not) Start panicking myself Make concerned eye contact with my sister Whisper to my dad… something in concern Reach over and put my hand on hers-- But instead I pick up her cup of water Place it in her hand And with her murmured thank you, I simply nod my head back. |
ADELE DUMMERMUTH is a student at Coe College, majoring in Creating Writing and Rhetoric. She enjoys writing poetry and short stories, along with sending random haikus back and forth with her dad (inspired by Ricky Baker from Hunt for the Wilderpeople).
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