of my mother

Remember the time, remember the place?

Remember the moment, remember the face?

Was it then, are you sure, did he really say that?

Did he always possess such a ridiculous hat?

We sit on the sofa and talk of the past.

I forget many things, but your memory is vast!

It holds every detail; it’s sharp as a knife.

It vividly paints the real pictures of life.

Our history, we’re told, is momentous and fine:

The war, the Depression, those significant times.

But you’ve made it so clear how our family is key,

They’re the people to think of; they should matter to me.

The dates of their birthdays, all the things that they’ve

The people they’ve met, or the battles they’ve won.

No detail’s too small, no moment too minor,

No crisis is trivial, no triumph is finer.

For most of my life, work has stolen its share

Of my time, an excuse for not being there,

Or turning up late, always failing to see

That the person who’s missed out on real life is me.

Your values are constant, they are family and friends.

Love unconditional, old wounds always mends.

I’ve been so slow to learn it, but I hope that you see,

That I love you for teaching this lesson to me.