My Mother

Born on a remote ranch, far from fame,

She spent her life being herself while

Helping other do the same. Grade eight

Was a platform from which she dreamed

Of an advanced degree for her first unborn,

Which turned out to be me. Life with her

Bestirred in me a buoyancy that carried me

To that degree. Returning home for Christmas

In my senior year, she was giddy as she

Threw the truck Into gear and sped off for

The ranch. I had never seen her so high

But the reason why arrived as we entered

The house. In one corner of the room stood

A spinet shiny and new, and without adieu

She sat on the bench and played Holy Night!

On stanza three she beckoned me to sit by her

Side and we sang the last stanza together. In

Tears I asked, where she had learned to play?

She was shy to say that she picked out the

Melody then took hurried lessons timed for my

Home coming.