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Six Little Hands
 



My children were just babies when it happened,
their mother made disabled in a crash
but at least she lived and stubbornly persisted,
not allowed the world dispose of her as trash.

Their father was a stranger to the kitchen,
reluctant to acquire cooking skills;
besides, his time was occupied with hobbies
and that irksome load of juggling the bills.

The three of them became my little helpers,
to fetch and carry from the pantry shelf,
to make school lunches and their beds each morning,
and those little tasks I could not do myself.

Regrets, perhaps, at robbing from their childhoods;
but the fun we had made more than recompense.
They are three most caring, wonderful of parents,
possessing more than just a dose of common-sense.

My daughter and both sons are Christian pastors;
when people ask, 'How come?' this my reply,
'The time you spend invested in your children
pays off well because the interest rate is high.'


By cherryk

© 2018 cherryk (All rights reserved)

 

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This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Poets choice (challenge has been closed)


This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Poets choice (challenge has been closed)


This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Poets choice (challenge has been closed)


This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Poets choice (challenge has been closed)


This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Poets choice (challenge has been closed)


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