who had the fortitude
to rise and shine, at six
as if it were required, by
unwritten rules of married life.
A mass of white gray hair
confronted her as a reflection
of age and life’s shenanigans,
there would be double doses of
rejuvenating Henna, soon.
She heard his plaintiff snore,
and glanced but briefly
into the room where he would stay
until enticed by odours of Moccona.
She turned and covered now
his bony foot, it must be cold
not ready for the day’s routine.
Some fifty years had come and gone,
each morning it had been,
by order of some universal force
the same damn foot that peeked.
She’d never failed to mother it,
regardless of the season
and of his depth of sleep.
But always with a tiny, wicked smile.

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