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Weekly Contest #69
My mother was stooped over the pot, stirring like a witch over her cauldron. She opened a can of crab meat and added it to the pot. The smell of the canned meat was putrid, but if it bothered her, she said nothing, and tossed the can away. In so many years she hadn’t changed at all. The lines on her face were a bit longer and there was less black in her hair. But the way she gripped the spoon, the neatness of the kitchen, and the tattered apron were the same image I had of her almost a decade ago. She saw me watching her and smiled , ...
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