Sacrifice and Appreciation

Old, short, chubby and frail,
my mother, bending over on her knees,
scrubbed the floor to impress invisible guests.
Singing songs from her soul, brought back from childhood,
sounding so joyful in her suffering -
she looks at me, smiles and sings louder.
I roll my eyes smiling.

Now she's washing the dishes
as if they were her prize;
a gift from our laziness.
I can see the pain in her voice,
outlined by wrinkles on her face;
yet, she sings like there is no greater pleasure.
I ask her what's for dinner.

Sitting in front of the t.v.,
I see her walking back and forth,
telling me how much more she has to do.
I stare at the screen, seeing only her voice,
wishing I could make it sing forever.