When I was about 10 years old, I wanted to give my Mom something homemade for Mother’s Day. I was too old for noodle art and too young for anything that involved going out to get something to create a masterpiece. So, I decided to sit down with a pen and paper and copy down one of her favorite poems. The handwritten words took a bit of a downhill slop as I neared the end of the page. Some words were crammed in to fit onto one line. It was far from perfect but completely from the heart.
I credited the author and then signed my name and the date. I framed it and wrapped it. I remember her eyes brimming with tears when she opened it. I felt such pride that I gave her something she cherished.
She hung up that poem in the vanity area of her bathroom so that it was the first thing she saw every morning. As the years past, the ink began to fade. In fact, after a couple of decades it was hard to make out what exactly the poem said. But she knew. And I knew. That is what mattered.
I knew the poem held special meaning to my Mom. It wasn’t until I became a Mom myself that I fully grasped why her eyes filled with tears that day and how ironic that was.
It was more than a year and a half after her death that my Dad took down that poem. He asked me if he could before he did. Part of me wanted it to stay hanging there forever, but part of me knew it was time to take down it down. (It now hangs in my vanity area– unreadable and in the scrawl of a 10 year old’s hand, but something I “read” daily.)
So, Mom, here for Mother’s Day I will once again post the words to your favorite Mother’s Day story. This one won’t fade. I miss you, Mom. I will always love you.