My mother, cleaning my small face each morning as sent off to school, 

A warm washcloth 

And breakfast cooked from scratch. Actually, cooked from what scratch was. 

No testing the well water,

Nor the history of textile imbued in the scrub vehicle.  

Just love. How my own eye boogers, the skin pores, lungs refresh with effort. 

So little, we'd rarely remember. 

2-13-23