Those Winter Saturdays (miming Robert Hayden’s Those Winter Sundays)

Saturdays my mother got up early

and cooked breakfast in the chilly cold kitchen

then with coarse wrinkled hands that ached

from labor as a cleaning lady woke me up.

I never thanked her.

I would crawl out of bed 

and hear the cold wind howling

After I washed myself and had my breakfast

She would dress me in my school uniform

and help me put on a pair of white stockings.

Listening indifferently to her

Who escorted me to take the school bus at dawn

and ironed my uniform as well

What did I know, what did I know

Of love that’s so tender inside.

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