I remember when I was a child,
being envious of my friends,
who would run home and tell Mom
about their day;
slamming the screen door
and the noise interrupting
the spring sound of awak’ning.
Standing in a warm kitchen,
apple pie baking and she,
with a whiff of flour on her cheek,
radiant with smile
as she listened to the story of the home run
that almost was.
Seeing me standing there on the breadth,
she flashed that smile of understanding,
and scolded us both for running so hard in the heat.
Then she sat us down
at a white pine tree kitchen table
to a treat of ice-cold milk and cake.
She, silently singing to herself,
today’s a treat to tomorrow’s desserts.
I knew she understood how I felt;
a small child so alone,
and she, another one’s mom,
with enough love left over
to treat me as her own.
I remember often my foster home,
I being fortunate in my time.
Time sometimes spent searching
for another one’s love – you see,
I don’t have those childhood memories of a mother,
Mine left for the other side of the tree.
I only remember her
as seen in other kids’ eyes,
and I realize –
that mothers the world over,
are really all the same.
they love all children,
somehow never forgetting a child’s name, so –
thank you Mom,