(Written February 27, 1994)
What, you ask, do I remember of my mother?
I remember the way she once was when I was just a child,
Our family conversations in the bathroom,
the aroma of fried chicken, corn and mashed potatoes on Sundays after church.
What, you ask, do I remember of my mother?
I remember the fun we used to have just us four
driving up into the hills and through the Needles,
stopping after a while to have a picnic in the shade.
How I loved her cold fried chicken and fresh macaroni salad.
What, you ask, do I remember of my mother?
I remember the way she once was, her funny ways and loving smiles,
bedtime hugs and kisses.
The love of a mother that seemed to me so very endless.
What, you ask, do I remember of my mother?
I remember the day she left.
It was a Sunday I will never forget.
We came home from church that day,
the aroma of chicken wasn’t in the air.
What, you ask, do I remember of my mother?
I remember how it felt then
knowing now that it hurts so much more.
That she’ll never know but it’s something I will forever feel.
All I have now are memories of how she used to be.
