When I was a small child, I would crawl onto the bed and curl up next to my mother. She would wrap her arm around me and, with her right hand, slowly stroke my forehead from the bridge of my nose to my hairline... softly, and with a warm and loving touch. It used to put me to sleep, and my dreams were always happy. She has always had the patience of a saint, something I will never attain. I still, to this day, call her "mommy".

Years passed, and I had ventured out on my own. I spent many years on the road singing in a band, and occasionally I'd get a week off here or there between gigs. It never mattered how long I had been away, my parents always welcomed me with open arms and loving hearts. And my mother could always be found gently rubbing my forehead at some point in the evening. We would lay on the bed, she with her paperback novel held loosely in one hand, her other soothing my furled brow as I curled up next to her, quietly asking questions she'd rather not address. Stroking my forehead the whole time, she would softly answer my incessant inquiries in her sweet, albeit vague manner.

More years passed, as did my father. My mother can barely walk now, but she never complains. The thought of her leaving me is something I quite simply can't bear to think about. I am, in fact, crying as I type this line. She has always been my strength. She has all those beautiful qualities we all strive for. She has a calm soul. Always has had that. I don't believe I have ever in my life met anyone quite as genuinely kind as my mother, or more loved by so many people.

I would like my mother to see me secure and happy before she leaves this earth, because I know how she worries. I am her baby, after all. But right now, I would really like to curl up next to her, close my eyes, and feel the soft, warm touch of her small, weightless hand stroking my forehead, for just a little while.

Happy Mother's Day, Mommy

I Love You