As a kindergarten teacher,
you understand
how children love to do
so many
many things
with their tiny, little hands.
You carted out into the kitchen
a metal mechanical creature,
and clamped it to the wooden kitchen table.
Red and silver, gleaming,
it bit into the red apple,
teeth finding purchase
through to the
core.
I watched
as you cranked
and the little red apple
spun and spun
round and round
dizzying,
undressing
from its peel.
I watched
as the apples spun,
and were cored,
cut up, and
dropped
into
the
pot.
But there is still a mystery
or two.
How did the apples become applesauce?
What happened in that pot?
What’s next?
Can I try?
What’s that?
And how much strength
does it take to
set the clamp,
to turn the crank,
to plow forward with each task at hand,
leaving curious questions unanswered?
If
you understand how children work,
why didn’t you let me work
with my tiny, little hands?
Did you let me work?
Did you let me help?
I can’t remember if you did or not.
Why do our brains fail us?
Why do only small remnants of memories remain,
like the peels that
trail
off
the table
to
the floor,
rather than the
sweet,
cinnamon
applesauce
itself?
Ochwoman To The Rescue 