My mother
by Gay Williford

was the scent of cinnamon rolls,
the talc of a spring breeze,
the cedar chest essence of protective care.

My mother longed
for aromas of gourmet kitchens,
delicate perfumes and new cars.

My mother
was the touch of love,
the tender of all wounds,
and the counsellor of family disquiet.

My mother desired
more support than evolved
to alleviate her heavy burdens.

My mother
was the crooner of bedtime lullaby,
the singer of silly housework ditties,
the tinkling giggler of heady wines.

My mother sang
the music of the caged bird
and rang handbells in her old age.

My mother
was a remarkable parent of five,
a caring elementary teacher,
an exceptional farmwife of endless chores.

My mother modelled
what it is to fulfill commitments
and put aside one’s personal dreams.


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