At boarding school, Mom learned to knit.
I’d hold a skein of yarn in my arms.
sway back and forth while she
wrapped it into a ball.

At boarding school, Mom learned to embroider.
Kitchen towels held names,
one for each day of the week I used
when washing and drying dishes each night.

At boarding school, Mom learned to darn socks.
On quiet winter nights sitting by a lamp
head bowed over a light bulb with my white
cotton sock stretched over it, carefully
weaving frayed edges together.

At boarding school mom learned to wash clothes.
Worked in the school’s laundry, bluing the whites,
ran clothes through the mangle, careful
not to catch an arm, hang on clothes lines.

At boarding school, Mom learned to sew.
Made all my clothes, even when I
complained that kids made fun of me,
my home-made skirts, dresses,
pants and darned socks, saying we were poor.

She sewed aprons, over the head bibs,
wrap around waist every day calico ones,
gauzy frou-frou ones for holidays,
starched stiff, with sheer pockets,
fancy hanky tucked in,
wide ribbons to make a bow.

At boarding school mom learned to clean.
Detailed to bathroom toilets with a toothbrush,
washed walls, scrubbed floors on hands and knees,
scraped dirt from corners with a butter knife,

At boarding school, Mom learned to cook.
And every day at home donned an apron,
and baked and cooked
and baked and cooked.
On holidays she wore the fancy
sheer frou frou apron with wide
starched ribbons, hanky tucked
in pocket, embroidered
with exquisite lace,
hands aching stiff from arthritis
had me tie a pretty bow.

At boarding school girls
were taught to be domestic servants,
trained to be housewives
they didn’t have a choice,
nuns stood stern, with rulers in hand,
my mother mastered the art
of housekeeping.

Mom taught me how to knit,
and darn,
and embroider
and wash and hang clothes
sew aprons, iron, wash walls,
scrub floors, scrape corners.
Exhausted, I refused to learn
to cook. The ghost of Richard Pratt
whispered in her ear,
and she told me I would
never find a husband.