A MOTHER'S LOVE
Today is the anniversary
of Ruby Austin's passing,
She left behind a mother's love
truly everlasting.
She told me once that as a child
she loved to play and sing.
She told me she was happy
to receive her wedding ring.
She told me that the years were hard
but had their days of mirth.
She told me that she loved her kids,
her God, her home, her church.
Today I'm thinking of her.
I see her tearful laugh.
I see her at the organ playing
turkey in the straw.
I see her playing scrabble and going up the road
Buying Christmas gifts in August,
presents for us all.
I remember how she'd whisper
and I couldn't hear a word,
And she'd shake her finger at me
when I hadn't understood.
I see her with the broom in hand,
the hands so sore and rough
from hanging laundry on the line
in temperatures that freeze.
I see her standing late at night
behind the ironing board
She sacrificed herself for me
with little thank you, please.
I never heard her yell.
I never heard her judge.
I never heard her criticize
and she never held a grudge.
I know she was often lonely
and I know she was often tired
and she rarely had enough money
to provide all that was required.
But we never lacked what we needed
if not always all that we'd want
And we never came home to an empty house
because Mom was always there.
And now that she is no longer
a physical part of my life
I never look into an empty heart
because Mom is still always there.
She taught me to laugh
and she helped me to cry
And she always spoke truth
when she looked in my eye.
She taught me that strength
always comes from within
and if you want something done
then simply begin.
She taught me to stand up for what I believe
And to know I'm not standing alone.
To not listen to gossip
and never add to it
To speak my own truth
and to write my own poem.
And now I share my poem with you
as I think of poems she wrote
And songs she sang,
And games she played;
the tears and the strife.
And hands that bled,
And heart that weakened
And faith that grew
In the sad, happy woman
who gave us all life.
