If you pierced through
her mundane life,
You'd never feel the
romance she felt—
Being in the kitchen,
feeding people,
Shopping for her inmates,
Turning everyday chores
Into little acts of love.
Her fingers would swell,
At times, they would bleed;
The torture of water—
Cold, boiled, or stale—
Would leave its marks
upon her skin.
Her waist, heavy with work,
Her legs, fatigued
From countless journeys
Through the endless chores
of the day.
Yet nobody noticed. The meals
were served,
The plates were emptied,
Cleaned.
The sweets were relished—
And the hands that made them
Were forgotten.
This faceless woman
Would still wear her smile,
Her sweetness never
diminishing, Like the sweets
she lovingly prepared
After every single meal.
Perhaps that was her tragedy:
They tasted the sweetness
of her love
But never the bitterness
of her pain.
They called it her duty,
Never once wondering
What it cost her to give.
And tomorrow,
Before the house awakens,
She will return to her kitchen—
Still loving, still giving,
Still waiting, perhaps,
For someone to notice
The woman behind the
meal. And maybe leave some
lines about her
Some time for her that
would give her the wings
to stay or fly away.
