Mother's unpracticed, pencil-script: “1938 Clell”
My Uncle Clell, nine...ten, thin and dirty blond;
a look of meek compliance; a tiniest of smiles.
“Please, Sir, I want some more.” comes to mind.

He, mother's charge, while Paul the youngest
still rode grannie's hip, rode the tail of mother's 
sack, her child cotton-picking sack, dragged row 
to row as an extra mass of whimpers or, at times,

glee in giggling flings of parched dirt and bugs,   
as she pinched cotton from flesh slicing bracts;
tinged-pink white wads stuffed in dragged bags
through days’ searing, harsh yet banal rhythms.

Mother confided passed an ever-present sad smile 
that getting just one orange on Christmas Day
was a delight sweeter than a day chore-free, but
one each for eight kids back then wasn’t cheap.

Clell struggled getting off the sack. “Me off, sis!”
But off, he did get “some more” through the years,
pulling hard, creating tales thought a joyful smile,
showering big sister with chocolates and oranges.

Of the eight siblings only mother remains, now
tugging gently her sweet sack of memories which
grows lighter and lighter each day as she awaits
her treat; the sweet, tart taste of promised reunions.