My mother,she

My mother, she

is a lilac sky, filled with royal blue veins and anger (like looping arches, coming back and forth, hovering above like a cloudy sky ) , her patience, like rolling thunder.

My mother, she

is petrichor mornings, hot cocoa with extra marshmallows, tiny rubber boots with puppy folders, and forehead kisses before she leaves for work.

My mother, she

is the sun kissed home of an exhaustive day. The pillow, the comfort where I may rest and know she looks out for me.

My mother, she

encourages me, onward, towards the betterment of myself, towards a young daughters independence.

My mother, she

is my home country condensed into one person, she is my star spangled promise in a chaotic life.

____

My mother, she

is beautiful. Always.

on days where grief drains her skin,

where hope fades to a glimmer on the horizon. Hair disheveled and body aching from a days work, from a lifetime of fretting over loved ones and looking out for her children more than herself.

My mother, she

used to make us pray together. To remember especially, the night-time prayer for angels to guard and protect us while we sleep. Should a day come where we didn't wake, for angels to guide us to that special place in the house of God.

Her lips placed gentle kisses on our foreheads, as she would tuck us in to sleep. Praying silently to herself once again for all of us, and for more days together.

My mother, she

exhausts herself in worry. Runs low on all she does for us, that she takes little notice of her health.

How it deteriorates more and more.

My mother, she

deserves the moon,

the sky, all the billions of stars and novas. Every sky kissed constellation wrapped and given into her rough and weathered hands. The prayers for her, I hope protect and grant her the promise of better someday, as reward for all her efforts.

May God bless her for all she has done and will do.

My mother, she

is beautiful. Always.

Always.