When I think of my mother
I think of golden apples and the pies she made
I think of late Saturday night floor washing
Baking of bread and rolls so delicious
They still make my mouth water.
When I think of my mother
I think of skin
Soft like butter and breath fresh and clean
I think of piles of ironing and the care she gave
I see a deft brush
A canvas rich with colors and impressive drawings
When I think of my mother
I think of the sacrifices she made
No candle lit dinners
No dresses but two
No money to splurge
No getting away
When I think of my mother I think of all that I’d say
If only I could
When I think of my mother I think of the last squeeze
Of her hand and her last
“I love you”
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