She always held her head up high
When she spoke.
And it made us take notice,
We listened to her like our
Lives depended on her next word.
She led us into battles and treaties,
Bound our wounds and sent us off
To do what we thought was best--
Even when she knew better.
She taught us in such ways.
And now, when I see her
Barely able to lift that
Once-proud chin, her speech weak,
Her limbs diseased...
I can scarcely speak for fear of breaking.
How do I repay a mother at the end
Of her magnificent life?
I know not a word or phrase...
I have nothing that she could possibly
Take with her into that far-off realm.
How does a son repay a life?
--C.R.E.
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