Owed To My Mother

I'd like to start the new year off by publicly apologizing to my mother, Marian Neil Hines, and acknowledging that I made an error in publishing a draft of my mother's poem, "Mother".

I assumed that it was the version that was published in a local newspaper, it was all typed up neatly (with my typewriter, an elementary school graduation gift that she suggested that I needed).

It was a long time ago and I had forgotten that I had saved the clipping and had it laminated. I found it recently while searching for some old papers and much to my embarrassment I had not published the final draft.

So, as a result of my error, my family has a draft of her work on my mother's funeral card.

That's not the extent of it, have you heard the expression "it's not written in stone", well, it is! My mother-in-law took one of mom's funeral cards and had a memorial stone made for me for Christmas, it's written in granite!

Here is the poem "Mother" that was published in a local paper, written by my mother about 40 years ago:

Mother

Time never nor space could ever erase
The picture that's hung in my heart,
Of that dear lovely lady's sweet beckoning face,
Expressions will never depart.

The smile that was gleaming when 'er I knew joy,
The bitter tears when I knew sorrow,
The frown, when I, evil task would employ,
The hope of much gladder tomorrows.

Whenever I failed there was naught but despair,
In achievement was nothing but pride,
And no artist's brush can ever compare
With the picture of her, here inside.

Glowing with sun-rays of love, just for me
In every chore and all duty
Thru the eyes of my soul filled with love I can see
Her face beaming with radiant beauty.

Angels in Heaven above never sung,
Nor is there a song in the land,
Would compare with the music of bells that are rung
In my heart when I hold her hand.

Hands that applauded me when I was right,
That wrung in a frenzy when wrong.
Hands that covered me up in the night,
That wrote on my sad heart a song.

Hands ever sowing and showing me how
To see my work through to the finish.
All that I am, I owe to her now,
May gratitude never diminish.

Because that I feel in Heaven above,
Angels whispering to one another,
Can find among burning turns of their love
None with the devotion of Mother.

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