You Little Dinlo
Potato skins, old hands, and gentle lessons
Hey everyone!
I haven’t posted in a while - procrastination has been strong.
Here is a poem inspired by my Nana, who I spent lots of time with as a child. She was a big part of my early memories, and this poem comes from one of those small, ordinary moments that stayed with me.
Hope you like it.
Bliss
She peeled potatoes at home by the fire, sat on the floor with a little black knife. A faded bowl nearby for the shavings, another filled with clean water. She scraped and she sliced. Sometimes the blade rested on a wrinkled thumb, though she never drew blood and there was no wastage in sight. One day I joined her. I wanted to help. So I copied her movements, just happy she thought me capable. Still, I cut my thumb and blood dripped down. ‘You little dinlo, look what you’ve done.’ Then I watched as she showed me the safe way. The potatoes still needed peeling.
