What I Remember of My Mother

I do not remember it all,
But I remember enough—
How my mother would sit beside my bed
Waiting for sleep to find my restless eyes,
Her Bible open in quiet devotion,
Its pages softer than the night itself.

I do not remember it all,
But I remember her voice—
Telling stories from the little book I gave,
Stories I scarcely understood then,
Yet somehow they linger still
Like echoes that refuse to fade.

I do not remember it all,
But I remember coming home
With unfinished homework in trembling hands,
Certain that she would know the answers,
For to a child,
A mother carries wisdom like light.

I do not remember it all,
But I remember her strength—
How calm she remained
When my heart grew uncertain
About the road before me
And the life I feared to live.

I do not remember it all,
But I remember this most:
Her prayers were never empty words,
And her love for the Lord
Flowed through her veins
As though faith itself was her heartbeat.