Sunday, August 06, 2006
"If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly."
I've decided to keep it brief (thus minimising the possibility of me breaking down while delivering it), not too mundane, not too poetic, we'll see.
Our mother loved us hard. She couldn’t help but do so. Not that we were easy to love, with unwashed faces, and the chartered disobedience of children who are free.
And her love was steadfast, in the face of various small disasters and disappointments; bloodied knees, torn clothing, unsatisfactory school reports.
Her love was with us everywhere, mindless of removals, upheavals, or the breadth of oceans.
And her love was timely, buffering us from the reversals of romance and sporting endeavour, reminding us that the job we didn’t get was the job we didn’t want.
Her love was proud, proud of our quick-wits, our strong teeth, and our sense of right and wrong.
Her love was grateful, for the grandchildren we had who ran around her feet and whom she could love as fiercely as she loved us.
Her love is never-ending, so while she can’t put her arms around us anymore we should all remember that she still loves us hard, because she can’t help but do so.