My mother sighed

as a potato peel slid onto the yellow linoleum,

she wiped her forehead

and stared through the window.

She stirred the cabbage in a pan

with tough beef,

and complained of the cold

and the constant clouds

that hung, like thick blankets

over the peeling buildings.

My mother stood, peeling potatoes

over the sink

while the tea pot whistled

and the falling white snow

gave her a headache

as it landed in gray piles

on the quiet streets.