It’s a wooden spoon, but dry and cracked,
I reach for it often, always good and useful.
Stir, scrape, place on the counter to rest,
wash and rub it with oil to bring it back to life.
Rough and tired, but an extension of my hand,
able to handle the hard heat of the work.
I add to my to-do list, go to work
and find and fix those cracks,
becoming an instrument in his hands,
trying so hard to be strong and useful.
They say my life should be a dedicated life—
Does that mean working without rest?
But body, brain screams for rest—
I’ve done so much—but it’s not enough, more work,
I slow in shame, but need to get back to life,
my brain feels hot, cloudy, cracked—
I no longer want to be useful,
but sit here, still, crying into my hands.
When Grandma died, did someone hold her hand?
A long and slow decline, but then finally rest.
Not many knew her, but she was valuable, useful,
and loved. In the small ways, she went to work
even when the hard moments cracked
her heart—a difficult and joyful life.
Enduring means the ups and downs of life—
burning weight that falls on shoulders and hands
will rise and fall, cool and crack—
sometimes, when I want to rest,
I instead have to force myself back to work,
back to being useful.
My fingers press on the keys, now useful.
Focus on this moment of music, ignoring life—
and now this doesn’t at all feel like work,
but producing a small bit of joy with my hands.
The notes ring and then a pause, a rest,
continue, the music filling up the cracks.
I am broken in the work, struggling to be useful
Filled up with cracks, and yet he values my life
He takes me in his hands and gives me warmth and rest.
