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We were close,
In my teens still mommy.
I stood behind her as she worked in the kitchen
And gave her a hug just because,
My mom.
Clean clothes,
Made beds, made food.
Acts of care and affection for me each day.
Yet a clumsy, running child
Can bruise.
I bruised her,
Clumsy teenage boy.
But no mention until I realized much later.
Forgiven without thought,
Still hugs.
I would
Bruise her again,
Many times more; a clumsy man.
Still no mention of it,
Just grace.
A tear,
Formed on her cheek,
Ran down as she prayed. I peeked at her tear,
Never meant to be seen,
Deeply felt.
She was quiet.
Her words soft and rare,
But her listening was loud to all who could hear.
Her compassion flowed freely,
A well within.
We aged,
No kitchen embraces now.
Yet I bent to my mother as she sat in her chair,
Faces buried and close.
Final hugs.
At the end,
Looking in her eyes,
I hugged her hand and told her again, ‘Thank you’,
‘You’re beautiful and loved’.
And she was.
She began,
A small child of God,
And her life enfleshed that fruit-bearing truth.
She now rests in peace,
In him again.
Still my mommy.
