A Rubbing of Hands

A Poem by Andrew John

Elsie, Lucy, Olive, this small boy's remarkable old aunts. Oh, how they rubbed their hands. But with glee or sorrow? Or even anger? Elsie had a strict-looking expression - when not rubbing her hands. Lucy wore spectacles that pinched her nose and, oh, had such a thin smile - when not rubbing her hands. Olive seemed serious, often frowning at me - when not rubbing her hands. But when they were rubbing their hands they were ridding those hands of flour that helped to make a cake or of flour that helped to make a Yorkshire pudding or of flour that helped to make joy - the joy of making that cake or that Yorkshire pudding; or of spiteful expressions they might wear when sneering at this small boy, who would have to eat their cakes or their Yorkshire pudding, or absorb their sneers - sneers that were also smiles. We remember our aunts in the most remarkable ways. I was a small boy. (April 2023)

(Elsie appears in two other poems: "Aunty Elsie's Bathroom" and "Coronation for a King")

© 2023 Andrew John

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Reviews

Chris Shaw

An interesting memory of your three aunts from the perspective of a small boy. They may have looked a bit intimidating, but oh I do hope that the cakes were tasty:) When I was little I found all grown ups intimidating:)

Chris