CelticMist

It is very difficult to speak of my mother.

With ease,I can tell you the color of her hair.
It was auburn.
I never saw her in that color.
When I was born, she had snow white hair.
Her eyes; they were deep blue.
Peaches and cream was her complexion.
Her smile; radiant!

She was born in 1899.

With discomfort,I tell you
Right from the beginning, she had a hard life.
Her father was an alcoholic.
And, he was mean.

At the age eleven, Mom labored for her very existence.
You see, she was kicked out of her home...

She lived with neighbors.
She cleaned their homes
And did their laundry.
Soon, she would cook for them.

They paid her fifty cents a week.

On payday, her father would come...
He would take all her money.

He bought his whisky and tobacco.

I never met this man; my grandfather.
He died before I was born.
I was never told his first name.

I met my maternal grandmother.
I saw her twice...
She traveled to see us when Dad died.

I thought her mean, too...

She wore her unshorn hair
In a bun on the crown of her head.
And, she had those deep blue eyes.

She left this world when she was ninety-two.
With Mom, I attended her funeral.
She died of natural causes
While putting coal in the heat stove.
She was found a few days later.
At the funeral,
Coal residue was still on her hands.

During the First World War,
Mom began writing to a soldier.
He was from the same area as she.
They had never met.
Through their correspondence, they fell in love.
Soon as he came home, they married.
That soldier was my Dad.

Suffice it to say, I deeply love my mother.
With her little Spirit nipped in the bud
I always longed to feel close to her.
She is a sacred rose in my heart.

She left us, quickly, in April of 1965.
She was sixty-five.
I was twenty-three.

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