For My Mother, A Poem

You left quietly
on a Sunday,
on your end, as it was breaking,
on mine, as it was coming
to a close.

Always with fondness
will I recall my first
faltering steps; should I
falter now, you won't be
there

To soothe
my hurt pride, to persuade
me to try again, to assure
my puny, fearful soul
of your permanence.

You, as all good mothers are,
were a gift from God,
for children you saw as
heaven-sent, and not
the little devils we truly were.

You were dutiful
in each thing
you did: We had a mother,
a teacher, a friend,
and my father, a wife.

I will miss you
in many things, places, events
from hereon; and
from hereon as well
I will find you in everything beautiful.