A Mother's Day Without Her
(For the one who still watches from above)
She wore her faith like Sunday white--
quiet, clean, and always right,
not perfect, no--but kind and true,
and stitched her days with all she knew.
She fed us love in humble bowls,
prayers whispered over weary souls.
She mended things no needle could,
and did her best, and did it good.
When life was hard, she stood her ground,
her voice a soft, forgiving sound.
The world took more than she could spare,
but still, she gave--she always cared.
Now heaven holds her gentle hands,
and I am left to understand
how much of her still lives in me,
how deep her roots still seem to be.
So on this day, I light a flame,
and speak aloud her sacred name.
A Christian mother, tried and true--
the heart of home I always knew.
I miss her more than words allow,
but I feel her near me, even now.
A guiding light, though we’re apart--
her love still anchors down my heart.
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