She’s getting old now, my mom.
She bends slightly when she walks.
The hand that used to grasp mine as we carved our path through thick crowds, now grips my forearm unsurely.
These days, she’d rather follow than lead.
The woman who could make us stop in our tracks with her quick stern stares now looks at me like melting ice – hard to stay firm and a tear not too far behind.
Yet, she’s my hero, my mom.
Her sickness and age my have withered her in this autumn season of life, yet she is planted firmly into the ground she is rooted in.
Leaves have changed color, and some may have even shed.
She grips on to the ones she has left lingering, with hope and conviction.
I just stare at her and caress her soft gentle hands.
How did this time pass so quickly?
Yesterday these arms stood out and wide.
Today they are frail branches bracing for the warmth to retire.
And through all the changes I have seen her brace, I am still in awe.
At her stance, and the roots she grew from.
I know deep in my heart that when winter comes, she will receive the frost and cold and still stand high.
And there will be majestic beauty in that as well.
Dedicated to the woman who never saw herself as strong, but is the definition of strength for me.