Women
Do It Best
She
sat on her rocker besides the TV
Which
was showing some American cop stuff.
On
her lap was the ever-growing
Folds
of a knitted garment.
The
needles clicked against the clock.
The
chair too rocked its rhythm –
Back
and forth – to and fro,
Creating
a counterpoint
To
the click of the needles.
By
her side were the open pages
Of
the latest thriller.
Through
her lowered glasses
Her
eyes moved following
The
lines of print in syncopation.
Now
and then the clicking stopped
As
she reached out for the cup
That
sat by her side,
Then
with a sigh of satisfaction
And
with eyes still moving to the beat of the words
Returned
the cup to its place.
The
TV, I thought -
Chattered
to itself, then
Among
the creaking, clicking, sighing rhythm
She
would say, “What a load of rubbish.”
Her
eyes would give the box one long,
Withering
glance,
Before
returning to the page.
Of
course now I know
My
mother could have been anything.
A
company director, or
An
airline pilot, or
A
rally driver.
They
call it multi-tasking -
Apparently
women do it best.