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”