my mom

My beautiful sister and my mom sent me a box of old photos. Many were of my young family in years past. My weight and hairstyle changed with each season. The faces of my babies look out at me over the years and remind me how much I love them. Then I saw photos of my Mom with my babies. I looked at my mother’s face. Really looked. Reading her face is like revisiting a favorite book from childhood. I know the words by heart; I can see them in my mind. I can put the voices to the dialog. The pictures are a bit faded but all the more dear. The pages are certainly older, worn and smudged. But my little hands made those smudges years ago as I lingered over the story and the quiet time. I know my mom’s face by heart, but still I look, and I remember loving her for all my life.