I’d like to preface the poem with a message to those of us that may feel somewhat burdened while caring for a loved one, and most especially, for those of us that cannot find the “time: for a “visit.”
Today, I’m going to visit my mother. I know it doesn’t really matter that it has been some time since I’ve seen her.
After all, she’s my mother; I love her, and I know she loves me.
Let’s see, perhaps I should bring her some flowers: Although I’m not certain which she’d prefer. I can’t even remember her favorite. But, I know it really doesn’t matter.
After all, she’s my mother, I love her and she loves me.
What can I use as my reason for not having seen her in such a long time? My personal, very important matters, my job, my family, my friends, or my many appointments; They all seem like such ridiculous excuses. I reflect on the times when I should have held her hand, listened to her
voice, or just sat and talked with her. I could now only imagine what I may have learned! But, once again, she knows how busy I’ve been! And I know she’ll understand.
After all, she’s my mother; I love her, and she loves me.
How I remember all that she sacrificed for me! How proud she has been of my family and me. How she has loved me, unconditionally. Wow! She certainly is a “wonder of wonders.” And some day, I pray that I can imitate her; love her and care for her, as she has loved and cared for me.
Even though I may realize a child’s love can never equal that of a mother. Someday, I promise, I shall. And I know if I do, so my children will do for me. After all, she’s my mother; I lover her, and she loves me. As I am their parent, I love them, and they love me.
I sometimes stop to reflect on all the many times she has “remembered” when I had forgotten. All the little, unimportant things that were meaningless to me, but so important to her. The right behavior, the love and respect she had for so many people, and proved it through so many acts of kindness. The same acts I now question whether I possess, and am willing to exhibit in my daily life, as she did. What I may have sometimes thought was silly, but knew how genuine was that love. How I still marvel at how this woman lived her life.
The years and thoughts pass through my mind as if they traveled at light speed to the reality of where I am.
And as I exit the door of my car, smiling at the thought of seeing and talking with her again, I suddenly realize the door to her home is not the portal that exuded love and warmth at the sight of a visitor, but a cold stone monument, with just a name and date. No longer the warm, sensitive person I called “Mom.”
As I silently pray to her and for her, I ask her once again, as so often in times past, to look after and care for me. Most importantly to never forget me, as I shall never, ever forget her.
And I know she will. After all, she’s my mother; I lover her, and I know she loves me.
By Robert A. Leon