Tuesday is the day to share a “Slice of Life” with Two Writing Teachers. Check out the writers, readers and teachers here. Thanks to Stacey, Anna, Beth, Tara, Dana and Betsy for creating a place for us to work collaboratively.
Today is my mom’s birthday. I searched for the perfect photo. I found several and then I couldn’t make up my mind.
Mom and Dad’s Wedding Day
45th Anniversary and the Grandchildren (My son Evan is the baby in Mom’s hands!)
I searched my memory for the perfect story. I couldn’t make up my mind about which story to tell. My mom has many talents. She has been/is:
- mom, grandmother, great grandmother
- aunt, godmother, friend, confidante, citizen of the world
- caterer, kolache baker, champion of the underdog, crocheted heart maker
- cook, salad maker, bus driver, cake maker and decorator, Volunteer Soybean Spokesperson, sewer, quilter
- support driver for RAGBRAI, concert attendee, Hawkeye Bowl Game attendee
- mother of a nurse, farmer, teacher, doctor, hotel data management, soldier
- a reader
- a writer
So I continued my search for the perfect tribute; I found this poem that I really like! I’ll work on my own for the next special event.
by Maggie Pittman
Her hands held me gently from the day I took my first breath.
Her hands helped to guide me as I took my first step.
Her hands held me close when the tears would start to fall.
Her hands were quick to show me that she would take care of it all.
Her hands were there to brush my hair, or straighten a wayward bow.
Her hands were often there to comfort the hurts that didn’t always show.
Her hands helped hold the stars in place, and encouraged me to reach.
Her hands would clap and cheer and praise when I captured them at length.
Her hands would also push me, though not down or in harm’s way.
Her hands would punctuate the words, just do what I say.
Her hands sometimes had to discipline, to help bend this young tree.
Her hands would shape and mold me into all she knew I could be.
Her hands are now twisting with age and years of work,
Her hand now needs my gentle touch to rub away the hurt.
Her hands are more beautiful than anything can be.
Her hands are the reason I am me.
Family Friend Poems
With a President – to – be?
Memories of my mom . . . Happy Birthday, with LOVE! ❤