My Mother

Recently, my sister Marianna compiled a collection of my mom’s poetry. Her writings, starting from high school, including her elegy to the great composure Gerswin, are amazing. Other poems telling stories of love and dreams are overflowing with emotions. I hang onto every word.
Writing was a thread my mom and I shared. I would read my poems to her; she would laugh or cry, always telling me how much she loved them.
As I read my mom’s writing, I am given a brief view of the person she was. I can see the images of her words in colorful dances of life. I feel the tears she felt when pouring out thoughts from her heart. As she was busting at the fabric of life to be heard, she whispers the words to paper.
When I was young I didn’t know or understand her, only that a daffodil would make her smile at the promise of spring to come. When I was a young mother and adult, she was gone. Her life ended, leaving unanswered questions and the loss of Lily of the Valley fragrance filling the air around her. No time left to have a cup of coffee and talk about life, decisions made, dreams broken or simply advice only a mother can give. Life took her on a roller-coaster ride that would alter her life around her children and grandchildren. Now with her words in my possession, she is in my heart and my mind, watching the threads of her life travel through a journey in time. They are filled with her desires, confessions of love, and sadness as if alone in this world. They leave me with a desire to take the sadness from her, wrap my arms around her in comfort. But it is too late – maybe it was always too late.
Today and always I will hold her words in my heart. I can see her…feel her…hear her and see the images of her words in my mind.
My hope is that through her writings, she found some peace.