The tears flowed

Steadily as she bowed

her head in mourning.

No longer was her mother calling

her in for supper,

Telling her stories

Of the glory days.

No longer was her mother walking

along the path,

Wheelbarrow in hand as

the hawk soared above.

She was born from a family of farmers,

Hard working; back-breaking;

sweat soaked farmers.

Simple lives, changed.

Like birds in winter she migrated away

from her mother,

for a better life and a family.

The times were changing

yet her mother remained unchanged-

Hard-working

back breaking

strong

sun-tanned farmer.

Natural.

Lonely.

Sad.

Her mother bore

the heartbreak of

a lost son;

his widowed wife.

Spring came and went,

her mother still alone.

Yet soon her mother’s calloused hands

would embrace the separated strands

of her family- her grandchildren once again.

Her mother’s tears dripped,

Ripped too quickly away from her family.

Yet they dried when she cried once again

In joy.

This time, her mother’s great-grandchildren visited.

Just two.

Her grandchildren.

Innocent.

Smiling.

The next visit bore a third child.

This was the last visit.

Her mother’s heart ached;

there were still five children.

Part of her mother’s flesh, blood and bone.

Great-grandchildren she would yearn

to but never see.

Her mother’s breath grew shallow,

eyes blurred and hands shaking.

Peacefully, her mother passed

in the night.

There her mother flew

a glorious hawk,

soaring above her loved ones.

Watchful and protecting.

Free.

Her mother was found

with a slip of paper.

The words written in her native tongue.

Not just words

but the names of the loved ones

she still had yet to meet.

R.I.P