© 2009 (Jim Grant Sularz)
With my first soulful breath,
it was mother’s eyes I saw.
She counted my tiny fingers and toes,
leaned gently, to kiss my brow.
Announcements sent out right away,
my name chosen, so carefully.
The name, I think, a famous general’s claim,
was now the name, I’d call my own.
My first birthday gift,
sweet cake smeared across my face and lips.
The first steps I took, outside mother’s reach,
she sprinkled fairy dust, to help me fly!
Each year, with each measured line,
mother made my mark along the door.
But, I always tried to fudge a bit,
with tiptoes on the floor.
Bumps and scrapes and crying soothed,
some ointment, she’d kiss away the pain.
Everyday, I’d come running back to mother,
for hugs and kisses, anyway.
First day of school, anxious cries at home,
an endless day away from mom.
“Draw me a “choo-choo” trains,” she said,
and I drew them - all day long.
It was through mother’s eyes, that I glimpse the World,
both good and bad were explained.
But only good would make it past mother’s eyes,
and the bad was chased fast away.
Warm summer days, family picnics at the lake,
corn dogs and ice cream on a stick.
Cold snowy nights, white frosted windowpanes,
making snow angels, with half-frozen fingertips.
First school date, first Christmas dance,
where cinderellas and princes pranced.
But, the eyes I noticed now,
were no longer just my mother’s.
Long years of school, drills and rules,
a foreign shore, a sweetheart missed.
And through it all, there was always mother’s voice,
calling me home from a war’s abyss.
Wedding bells rang out crystal clear,
those other eyes I noticed, were now adored.
The years flew by, our children grew,
and mother grew older, too.
Thanksgiving feasts around the table,
children born, toasts, and loud celebrations.
Birthday gifts, songs, proud graduations,
and mother’s bright eyes, began to dim.
In her quiet manner, with a solemn look,
mother smiled and held my hands.
“Upstairs, there’s a jar behind my easy chair,
go there - when the time is right.”
When death arrived, in wait for mother,
with a chilled silence, on the darkest night.
Mother reached out for her last embrace,
then was wisked away, bathed in light.
Mother never washed off my marks along the door,
saved a flower from my first Christmas dance.
Framed her collection of my “choo-choo” trains,
next to a portrait of General Grant.
Grand children loved to dress up at “great granny’s house,”
where cinderellas and princes pranced.
And upstairs - mother left me her fairy dust,
to help them fly!
I wrote "Soldiers Called" to honor my father , Henry. "Through Mother's Eyes" is for my mother, Virginia.
Jim Sularz
