On seeing his mother through her eyes

He sees his mom then, in her eyes.

She the one that shares their life.

She is young like momma was.

Three young ones has she, now, 

like momma had then.

 

His momma had three children in four years,

And daddy then too.

 

Funny he thought it was,

That he refused to walk until he was three.

She then carried two babies,

one on the hip and one in the carrier.

 

Her sister had helped, she unmarried,

Then became a nanny for number two.

 

Seeing the puzzle from his side, then and now.

Never seeing the burden, his refusal to walk,

Created for her.

Seeing over is not seeing through.

 

Now he sees, through

Both the joy and the burden,

His refusal to walk, created.

He now knows, the things, she provides

The joy and the sorrows, and the strength,

As his maturing  mother supplied to her,

Little ones.

on the mystery of the need to write

 

From whence then comes the need, for him to write?

He writes then, nearly weekly, to her, the one he shares this life with.

She reads them or does she.

He never hears from her, on the writing and the poetry.

Maybe it is better this way.

They are his children, his only creations.  He has a daughter and a son, he adopted years ago.  They are special and unique and fill a void in their lives, but they are not his creation.

Once thirty years ago there had been another, he wrote, to her to from his Christian Mission.  After 3 months he stopped writing when she never answered back. Only decades later did he come to understand how she cherished these letters.  He could have taken a chance, weekly, to teach his mom the Gospel of Jesus Christ.  

Maybe it is his hope in writing her, he can leave something for her and the children.  That his grandchildren will learn to cherish his writing as he now cherishes his grandmother’s paintings and poetry.

This then is his hope today.