First Grade


First Grade

Nudged awake,
in the still-dark morning,
by the sound of her shower’s rainfall—

I’d drag my aqua comforter to the toast-colored carpet
outside Mom’s bathroom. I’d drop the heap
and loll in the folds,
watching mist rise
from the slit of light beneath the door.

Before the tap of words was opened,
I’d ease into the school day,
inhaling her drugstore citrus,
and listening to the downpour
break on her first.


Poem, by Bethany Rohde, first published on Mothers Always Write. Photo by Michelle Rinaldi Ortega. Please do not use without permission.


2 thoughts on “First Grade

  1. __ Those we honor with our memory, will always be aware of that tribute. We never doubt the union of our senses, they so often confer

    morning sounds
    given to my new day’s eyes
    mothers smile

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