Mama in her casket
was still young and beautiful -
almost one hundred years young.
A crucifix was propped upon the lid.
Christ and I gazed down at mama.
They asked me to say a few words,
but no words came, only memories.
Her world had been a family of six.
I remembered mama scrubbing
the floor on her hands and knees,
while I copied her with a toothbrush
and chalkdust. I could hear her
telling me stories and singing
me songs, then urging me to eat
my oatmeal or take my codliver oil.
I could see her feeding the little
canary Daddy had rescued in the rain.
It was happy in its cage,
as Mama was in her nest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
What an extraordinary tribute to your mother. You have given her a gift that will never stop giving. Just beautiful, Mary. Warm regards, Sandra