My Mother

 For forty years, 

My mother was

A calm smile

From behind the glass of photo frames

Sepia images so beautiful and sacred.

Worn, yet treasured.

And letters holding a very special penmanship 

That nobody ever sees anymore.

My mother was

Strings of fragrant jasmine 

Lovingly folded

By my father

Into a cross to place 

On her cool tombstone 

Below the white marble cross

Before handing us children each a flower too,

So we can all have a turn

To honour our Mamma.

My mother's was

The next picture we kissed 

After saying the rosary 

And kissing the framed Sacred Heart of Jesus

That hung above our altar 

When Pappa carried us 

To hold us high and

And said the words for us...

"Mamma bless me."

Every night before bed.

My mother was 

The rustle of dry leaves 

Crushed under our sandals 

As we skipped along the long path 

In the cemetery 

And the sweet swoosh of water 

That I loved hearing 

As water swirled over the crevices of the marble cross

When the man poured it from a pot, 

To wash the dust and leaves off.

My mother was 

All of us gathered around her 

In prayer, on every special day

With bouquets full of flowers 

and hearts full of stories.

My mother was 

Stories yearned for 

...over four decades 

And greedily devoured 

Whenever they were heared.

-Marietta Rebecca