She Taught Me

When I was 5, my mother sang me lullabies,

Words that tucked me in

And kept me warm at night.

Filled my tummy with tickles,

My face with smiles,

And my heart with joy.

She said she would always be there

To sing for me.

 “More,”  I’d tell her,

“Mommy, please sing some more?

I can’t sleep.”

And she’d say,

“Hush my child, it’s time to sleep.

 It’s time to think happy thoughts.”

So I’d close my eyes and drift away.

She helped me dream.

She said she would always be there

To help me dream.

When I was 9, my mother taught me to sew,

Hands flowing like clockwork,

Weaving in and out of yards of cloth.

Shiny threads, stitched to what seems like

Around the world.

She said she made a beauty.

She said she’d always show me beauty.

 “Ouch,” I’d say, “momma, please do this for me.”

 And she would say,

“Hush my child, the pain only last for a little while,

But, the result lasts a lifetime.”

So I’d dry up my tears, and tighten my seams,

Bringing my sweet dreams into beautiful things.

She told me her work would always last.

When I was 14, my mother left me,

To walk into a bed of roses behind a small,

Cozy church in the country.  

I didn’t have her to guide me.

“Why,” I told her, “You left me in the middle, in the dark,

I need your help.”

She said, “Hush my child, it’s my time to rest.

The pain will only last a little while.

I’ve helped you, I’ve helped you to dream,

I've showed you beauty, and my work for you will last.

I’ve helped you, now it’s time for you to let me be.

 You have me.”

So I watched as she lay down,

And asked, “Where is your beauty?

Where is your work?”

I gazed at the face in the reflection that carved marble

Gave off in the rain, and heard,

“It is in here.”

©Danie Rae