Smelly Boots, Stained Hands

Those little hands,

hardly big enough to hold a finger,

hardly steady enough to sound a clap.

Soft and innocent,

yet grease-stained.

He bends,

lifting heavy, sweaty boots,

placing them near the feet

of the man who waits, expectantly,

a man who once made his ailing wife

do the same for years.

Old habits die hard.

He doesn’t know.

He only knows to love,

to respect, to obey.

For isn’t that what he’s been taught

to honour those older,

to serve without question?

He cannot tell apart

good from bad,

love from servitude.

And when the narcissistic adults

commend him for a job well done,

his eyes widen,

sparkling with joy,

a joy that breaks his mother’s heart.

She watches silently,

helpless, angry, torn,

the one who taught him love,

but forgot to teach him

that love needn’t bow.

She scrubs those little hands clean

each time,

washing away the smell

of smelly boots and stained pride.

Had it been an ailing man,

she would have smiled,

encouraged, blessed.

But this...

This is cruel.

This is culture gone wrong,

a ritual mistaken for respect.

And so the autocracy continues,

a legacy of lazy, narcissistic men

and women too silenced to rebel.

Enslaving generations,

one innocent heart at a time.

Here’s to a society

that reeks of autocracy,

narcissism, and chauvinism.

Here’s to habits

that die hard

and children

who grow up believing

that love must kneel.

________________________________________

Author's Note:

In the name of culture and respect, too many children are unknowingly taught submission before they are taught self-worth.

They become silent bearers of inherited servitude, confusing obedience with love,

and losing pieces of themselves

to traditions that never served them.