Every time my mother sat down the skritches would appear
Tens and sometimes hundreds of intersecting lines.
They had no beginning and no end. They were constant.
Their continuity became an endearing part of her.
Anybody who knew my mom knew the skritches.
After she passed we took to the passing tasks.
Boxing, binning and doling the whole of her life.
Then there, to spark nostalgia and tear soaked smiles,
were the skritches, prevalent on much of the paper.
They were on lists and envelopes and bank statements.
As we reminisced an epiphany dawned on our adulthood.
Those intersecting lines were not the artwork of boredom.
They were frustration. They were sorrow. They were pain.
They were hopelessness and helplessness and finger pleas.
Those lines were her selflessness and love for us, her children.
The skritches were not the doodles of listlessness and tedium
They were her safety net that kept the world from crushing her.
