Oatmeal

I look to heaven no vision appears I see no pearly gates, no golden stairs. Close my eyes a deep breath pulls back the past, So that I can tell you how heaven smells. Heaven's kitchen my mother is cooking (With love and care) cooking her sweet oatmeal. I've tried many a bowl since she been gone, So that if the truth be for me to tell, Their's tasted poor not like my mother made. Those oats she cooked no longer do they sell. I remember the love cooked in her mush. How warm and loved her sweet oats made me feel. A cold north wind could bite at my thin skin Definitely she threw in face of cold, A bowl of oatmeal and warm winter coat. Twirl scarves around my neck, gave me a pat- A pat on bottom and a kiss on top "Careful -I love you" then to school I'd trot. She would pull down my cap over my ears, Run her slender fingers in my trim hair. I miss it -how? I was standing right there, My mother's sweet love, my sweet mother's care. How sharp the memories how deep they cut, Neither shelved by time, distance nor touch. I did not suspect. How I could not know? There was much more than oats in her sweet bowls. For the warmth I felt came from deep within. A mother's warm love could insulate more Than cold, cold wind. Someday my time will come For me there will be no burden or fear. At her table I will sit with the Angels We will feast on my mother's sweet oatmeal.