By: Michael W. Curry

 

Remember all those times when I'd write you something down?
About trains and pheasants and dragons...
A pirate or a clown?
I'd give you all those scribbles and you'd put on such a play.
Then you'd hang them on the fridge next to Van Gogh and Monet.
Well... I've slacked off just a little bit.
with wife and school and kids.
I figure now, I owe you one, if there's still room on the fridge.
I always felt important when you saved my little things.
You'd put them down in Fort Knox... along with panty hose and rings.
And when the visiting dignitaries came, like Gramma or Aunt Faye...
You'd pull out all my treasures and you'd put them on display.
Well... if they mean so much to you then I'll gladly write you more.
I'm always so amazed that it's these things you adore.
Though, I guess I really shouldn't be, with two kids of my own.
They bring me all their scribbles too, a rock, a weed, a bone.
I think I understand it now... how worthy these things can be.
They're given and received in love... the same you gave to me.
So I keep their little treasures too... the rock, the shoe, the ball.
But the kind of love a mother has, it the greatest treasure of all.
I love you mom.