"Exhaust"

The day I saw my mother exhausted was more than a countenance of defined
wrinkles and discoloration under her eyes.
It was more than the timed out hairdo
and the way her voice lingered from high to barely there.
It traveled beyond weary bones and calloused fingers.
It labored longer than job-filled hours and ongoing commutes.
It repeated simplistic outfits, combinations and permutations,
and punched holes into the heels of outdated shoes.
It was selfish consuming my mother like the greedy corporation whose policies are only self-benefiting.
It followed her like a demon, lurking to see her fail, but Lucifer failing to
recognize she already wins with Jesus.
It sneaked into the warmth of the home, setting of a cascade of cold daily shores.
A rhythmic beat: dishes, laundry cook, wipe floors, 
dishes, laundry, cook, wipe floors.

It created a stench, drastic to the nose, and attached itself like a parasite to
the vibrant life of my mother. 
The stench utilized blind toxins to peel back the
intrinsic layers of my mother's glossy skin.
The day I saw my mother exhausted I pictured myself as her essence.
I disliked the future like it was my fate.
I pictured sacrifice for my ungrateful children and hot tempers over my quieted voice.
It was an alarm to my catered life and I pitied myself for
not immediately noticing what her boundless love accumulated for me.
For allowing her countenance, her physique to reach the epoch of exhaust.
Daughter, more I will listen, I will do.
The saying is true: one mother can care for five children, 
but five children cannot care for one mother. 
-Arnelle W.