Each time I strain the stock,

her words grate in my mind,

‘Keep the stock ladies. 

It’s full of vitamins.

Use it again

for soups and gravies.’

I’d have loved that class,

but for the way she tore on a bias that left me in shreds. 

She took my notebook with the collie dog on every page,

moved me to her desk — the anti-pet.

We sat so close, our knees brushed. 

I was a pin cushion, pierced by her tongue,

until I told my parents I could take no more.

My Father said Stand up for yourself. 

If that doesn’t work, we’ll sort her out.

I lay awake the night before

I stood up and said

I’m leaving. Give me my notebook back.

Her tack changed then,

You’re not going.

You’re one of my best.

It was too late to unravel what she’d sewn.

My parents know. 

Let me go, or they’ll be in to deal with you.

GET OUT OF MY SIGHT! she said

as she threw the book. 

I tucked it into the pocket of my home sewn skirt

as I left.

I’m a Mother now with a girl of my own.

I’ve taken stock of that time,

used it again,

my child is nourished — strong.