What a beautiful photo of your mother, Teresa. and you words are so evocative, wistful, an homage.
I have a few of that era, long before my arrival ... :)
That's a wonderful photo to have!
She was a beautiful woman, in every way.
Lovely photo of a lovely lady. Your poem combines in waking echoes of an influence that never ends.
I feel her influence now, unimpeded by my desire to make my own mistakes ... :))
I want to add, that the dream, which was on the periphery of sleep, was a bit unsettling ... why was my mother waiting for me?
I suspect the answer to your question is simply that our mothers never stop waiting for us: waiting for us to come home, to wake up, to finish supper, to learn how to study, to come to our senses. And so on.Beyond that, it's of great interest to me that I've grown to love my parents more, and understand them far better, as the years go on. Things about them that I never paid attention to, or never understood, come clearer every year. It's quite an amazement.And the photo and poem are lovely.
Thank you, Linda, for this lovely response, and for helping me enlarge my view of this.I, also, have grown to love them more, see them more fully ... I suspect my own maturing view of life allows for this, and, yes, it is an amazement. Thank you so much.
"She's waiting" seems to be the cornerstone of this wonderful poem. Good mothers need great patience. I often think about my mother who had nothing and gave us so much. A woman of fierce determination she fought through life with a dignity. I have a photo of her and me (as a small boy) over my desk.
yes ... a good mother is a real treasure ...as are these photos.
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