To my mother, and her undying love for her children.
It is written in her rough hands and her aching back.
It is the song of her calloused knees.
It is the whisper of her smile
And the sparkle in her eyes when we succeed.
It is her subtle boast to friends
It is her chiding us in private.
It is the very fabric of her being
And we are infinitely thankful
And eternally in debt.
It is why we are
And why we are what we are.
