Saturday, May 1, 2010

The Portrait of a Mother

Someone once said that her expression was harsh.
She did not smile very often.
Her face was round; her mouth almost a straight line.
Her brown eyes had depth.
She suffered much pain.
Her memories of a relative who died on the operating table
prevented her from seeking medical help.
She finally had the surgery and survived.
Her love was a jealous and very possessive affection.
She'd spare the food out of her own mouth to feed me.
While in agony of pain she sewed me a coat.
I was only 18 years old when she died of cancer.
On her gravestone it said: "The Lord preserves the simple" (Psalm 116:6).
When I was 19 years old I found out who she really was.
She could never be a mother, but had cared for her niece's child.
She did not want this child to know.
This person was the mother who sat with me
and prayed for me when I was ill.
She cried for me when I was in pain.
Her love was genuine.
I will always remember her as MY MOTHER.