Loving Hands

In the early morning before the sun arises;

she gets the necessities to make sure we’re fed.

Using her small hands that labored away with love

to make the Mexican variety of our daily bread.

Freshening up she readies herself for the task at hand:

making her way to the kitchen as she’s done for years,

searching the pantry for the ingredients there she stands

and the sound of her movements is the only thing she hears.

Flour, salt, and lard in just the right amounts

as she works all the ingredients with her finger tips;

she never needs to measure or needs to recount

from years of perfecting her craft she's more than well equipped.

Stirring, mixing, then pouring the hot water little by little;

the most important aspect to ensure the right consistency.

As the ball of masa rests, it’s time to warm the griddle

and make little round balls to roll out in perfect symmetry.

Throwing a little flour on the board so the balls don’t bind

the sound of wood on wood begins and from my slumber I awake,

with each half turn she rolls out a perfect sphere every time;

slapping it between her hands the tortilla is ready to make.

Down it goes on the hot comale the tortilla begins to bubble;

as the smell permeates every nook and cranny in the house

I can’t help but jump out of bed and into the kitchen I hustle

to see my siblings also waiting for the first tortilla to come out.

With precision she grabs it with her finger tips and flips it over

patting it down as it cooks for a few seconds more; now it’s ready.

My siblings and I will have to wait, as she puts it in the tortilla warmer,

because we know the one that always gets to eat first is our Daddy.

Copyright by NewLife2008