Fine Strokes

Fine Strokes

Pleased with the part
you just combed in my hair,
you then helped me with my tie,
you pressed your kiss onto a tissue,
then called a taxi for a ride.
We lined up for our pictures,
bulbs flashed when we said cheese.
We still have that old photograph,
and I still have all these memories.

Kneeling down in St. Catherine’s pew,
during the 9 o’clock Mass,
I knew that you’d reach over soon,
to push forward on my ass.
If the Good Lord could suffer for all of us,
willing to accept His fate,
then I can certainly give Him an hour,
and I can certainly kneel up straight.

The faith and the values
you carved into my stone,
are as strong as my love,
they're scrimshawed on my bones.
My sense of humor, my respect,
my sensitivity,
were all gifts from you,
and I love you, Mommy.

Counting loose change for Dad’s camera,
pushing pennies into piles,
a surprise gift sure to capture,
his young children’s checkerboard smiles.
Newspaper spread across the den floor,
my Mom with her kids on their knees,
that camera’s long been replaced,
but never will these memories.

Always ready by my side, sleeves rolled up,
you’d take on the Pope,
if convinced that I was truthful,
after “the look” and plenty of rope.
You fought just like a pit bull,
always there to defend me.
You still have that fight, still have “the look”,
and I still have all these memories.

The faith and the values
you carved into my stone,
are as strong as my love,
they're scrimshawed on my bones.
Every fine stroke
others see painted in me,
were brushed by the artist
that I call Mommy.

Because the apple, apparently,
doesn’t fall far from the tree,
lots of good things about you,
were passed on to me.
Boy’s don’t appreciate their mother’s
until they’ve grown into men,
and if I had a choice,
I’d choose you for my mother,
all over again.