Jack’s mother used to be feisty,
boisterous, energetic.
She used to take misfortune
in her stride
and carry on with
a sarcastic laugh.
But the years had worn her down
and she was tired,
a deep tired she couldn’t shake,
her movements sluggish
with grief and responsibility.
Even small, beautiful moments
couldn’t touch her anymore.
She used to take pride in her Betsy,
who produced milk
she could churn into butter.
But people rarely bought from her now,
too weary of her son’s reputation
to be seen near their house.
So when Jack told her he’d sell
her beloved cow at the market
she didn’t even bat an eye.
She didn’t say goodbye.
Scribbled Thoughts 