To Jean

Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

My mama. Birthed

six babies —

five of us would survive.

My mama. Grieved

the loss —

of her first-born son.

My mama. Brought

Joy —

into the world.

My mama. Woke

before the sun —

only to find the quiet.

My mama. Wrote

endless prayers —

in journals we never read.

My mama. Sang

softly and sweetly —

tunes carried throughout our house.

My mama. Crocheted

delicate lace —

angels to avoid idle hands.

My mama. Filled

the air —

with eucalyptus and spicy perfume.

My mama. Dazzled

on Friday nights —

with shimmering beauty and grace.

My mama. Answered

every call —

for help, hope and encouragement.

My mama. Rocked

my babies —