Tomorrow is the anniversary of my mother’s death. My heart is still torn open and hemorrhaging, perhaps this wound never heals. It helps to remember her though, and to imagine her now…

If I had to describe my mother in a colour, I’d pick yellow. Not that she looked good in the colour, her undertone was too pink. But the impression she left wherever she went was of bright spring days and flowers just starting to open. That was her destiny in this life, I guess. To be always opening, about to bloom.


She is the first blade of green stretching from winter’s barren heart

She is wind that blows the ice away

She is warmth, a hand on mine, like a cup of tea

She is the tender downpour of first rains

She is bright sunny days, the sun in my toddling scribbles

She is the closed bud on ardent spring bushes

She is plucked and gently placed behind an ear, a garland of new life

Now in full bloom, she sings praises to Jesus

Bows her head to the King of Peace


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