Perfect Love
Perfect Love
In loving memory of my mother on her 98th birthday
Though we strive for perfection,
we agree it is an impossible goal.
There is always something
that can be improved
no matter how close we think we’ve come.
It would be pointless for me to argue the point.
And yet.
My mother’s love
seemed to test the limits of perfection,
at least in my opinion.
I’m not saying she was a perfect person,
she certainly wasn’t that,
she had as many faults as anyone does,
but her love for her family–
That is another story.
She said no as often as she said yes,
and by example taught us the important things:
honesty, generosity, and kindness,
to let anger go, to forgive and forget,
to put others first,
to see the best in people,
to love and not be afraid to show it.
We were always welcomed with open arms;
enfolded in her embrace
we knew her love would keep us safe.
The warm of that unconditional love
remains a beacon when the world grows dark;
when all else fails, her love continues on.
So I strive to emulate the perfection
of my mother’s love.
It seems an impossible goal,
a pinnacle too high to attain,
and then I feel the love
pushing me forward
to be the best I can be.
~~~
If you’d like to read more poems written for my mother, you can take a look at last year’s birthday post.
~Elise Skidmore ©2017
A beautiful tribute to your Mom. A Mother’s love is special and we all have unique relationships with our Moms. I always thought I was more like my Dad until more recently as AJ says to me, “OMG Mom – you’re just like Grandma or Mom, you’re becoming like Grandma, or he says to me you sound like Grandma more and more each day”. Even with the silly, annoying, or quirky things that my Mom did like leaving a coffee cup in the microwave because she heated her coffee and then got involved with something else. Now, here I am, doing similar things or saying similar things, and I laugh when he points them out to me and yet I find comfort in the similarities. Happy Heavenly Birthday to your Mom.
Thanks, Regina. I think maybe we start to see more of our mothers in ourselves as we age because we cannot remember our mothers when they were young. We do remember the aging versions, which is what we are now. Years ago I wrote a poem that I included in my first book called My Mother’s Hands. Just a few days ago as we were sitting at dinner, I looked at my hands and said to my husband, “I have my mother’s hands. They look exactly like hers.” I thank my luck stars that I was blessed with such wonderful parents to emulate.