The Portrait of a Mother

Someone once said that her expression was harsh.

She did not smile very often.

Her face was round; her mouth almost a straight line.

Her brown eyes had depth.

She suffered much pain.

Her memories of a relative who died on the operating table

prevented her from seeking medical help.

She finally had the surgery and survived.

Her love was a jealous and very possessive affection.

She'd spare the food out of her own mouth to feed me.

While in agony of pain she sewed me a coat.

I was only 18 years old when she died of cancer.

On her gravestone it said: "The Lord preserves the simple" (Psalm 116:6).

When I was 19 years old I found out who she really was.

She could never be a mother, but had cared for her niece's child.

She did not want this child to know.

This person was the mother who sat with me

and prayed for me when I was ill.

She cried for me when I was in pain.

Her love was genuine.

I will always remember her as MY MOTHER.