You hold my hand in the most tenderest of ways,

In awe of the baby that your body grew me.

Five fingers on this hand, each that you wiggle while you smile,

Telling me about a piggy once every while.


I’ve never seen lips that can hold such a red as yours do—

I confess I have tried to match that bold rouge,

But it is not the same, never the same.

The red that you wear is not just a color.


The red that you wear is in the cardinal of your mother,

The cardinal that I see perching on the dogwood,

Watching over me as I walk to my transition home.


The red that you wear is in the blood that flows in me,

And in you. The blood that you wipe off my knee

As you frown delicately, quelling my tears all in one motion.


The red that you wear is in the power of your voice,

The sugary hum that told me about God and love and wonder.


The same clear sound that broke when you came to me,

Drooping shoulders, and wet eyes, confessing that God

Might not be ready for you to pursue something new,

Something you’ve always wanted, something I knew

In my elbows, lungs, and ears that you were made for.


And here you are, mother, red lips and strong teeth,

Sitting in the chair you envisioned yourself in,

The chair you got on your knees to pray about,

the chair that you work diligently in,

The chair that you, whether you know it or not, serve Him each day in.


I wish you love today, and everyday, and always, and forever.