Goddess
By Spoot
She was 44, had numerous laugh lines, her hands were cracked by the bleach and heat they were submitted to as she went to work at the high school cafeteria five days a week, for eight hours a day. Her skin was darkened from days spent in the garden, planting flowers, vegetables, anything that would grow if only she would give it a chance. She had arthritis in her wrists, grey in her hair, and frequently needed new shoes. She's my mother, and she was, and still is, the most beautiful woman in the world. The beauty of her soul shines through her burnt and abused hands, through her hazel eyes with the misplaced brown dot in the white of it, away from the iris, which seems a window to her heart. Her magnificent sense of humor and her love of her family and friends flows over the world every time she laughs, creating things anew. She's a goddess, and I love her wholeheartedly. I still call her mommy, and, sometimes to my horror, she still calls me "Pookie" in front of my friends. Her scrambled eggs are to die for. She never forgets when I have to be somewhere (but frequently forgets when she does), can always recite my current grade point average exactly when gushing to her friends, knows what I like and what I dislike, and gives out warm hugs like candy. Of course, she still hasn't figured out when I started to like pink. She was the one who taught me how to tie my shoes, and when I did... she gave me a lollipop! Who else would be so kind, so generous? It was a cherry lollipop, too. She never puts me down, only encourages me to do better, to be better, because she sees something in me that she thinks can go far... just like what I see in her. She's a perfect mother, exactly as any little girl could wish to have. She endures all of my tantrums, and when I'm done, it's always her shoulder I cry on. I know I will never be any better than her, for she is a goddess, and perfect in every way, but I strive to get to the point that, one day, when I have a little girl of my own, she will think of me as a goddess... even when she's at the difficult age of thirteen. Written March 7th, 2002 © on Mar 07 2002 01:43 AM PST 0 • 8
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"She was 44, had numerous laugh lines, her hands were cracked by the bleach and heat they were submitted to as she went to work at the high school cafeteria five days a week, for eight hours a day. Her skin was darkened from days spent in the garden, planting flowers, vegetables, anything that would grow if only she would give it a chance. She had arthritis in her wrists, grey in her hair, and frequently needed new shoes...."