I'd like to write about the solitary lamppost and the melancholy night. Or muddy puddles and the orphan child. But I didn’t ever tell you about my mother. For it's so hard to talk about her. It’s not that her hair is on fire. Nor is she the definition of motherhood. There are even times that I hate her. She has her flaws, and sometimes that is all I see in her. Othertimes I see them not. My mother would have her qualities, and I would freely write about her, if only I could see her qualities for what they are. I am just glad she is always there.
(My Mom's on the right)
A Pebble in the Beach
Waves of emotion undulate,
Hold hands and together,
On the stony face of an ancient land.
A little pebble on the rocky beach,
Like an old missive, a torn page,
Has some scribbled words, hardly legible.
The sun bleeds on the liquid sea,
Dissolves itself in a cup of tea.
The rising tide will set aside,
Little pebbles, and petty memories.