Sometimes it's a sound,
birds like we listened to,
or the music she liked to hear;
Sometimes a smell,
like flowers, or even the
shampoo she used;
Sometimes bacon frying,
or the pudding she liked.
Over and over, every day,
I think of my mother,
and tears flow.
I was so tired, but why
did I give up?
Those were the best times,
the only really important times
in all of my life.

Written May 1996
Copyright © 1996-2002 Brenda Parris Sibley
Published in Waiting for the Morning (Writer's Club Press/iUniverse, 2001)