Mother by Alice L. Wood

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · May 4, 1911

Mother

By Alice L. Wood

As we grow older, and at last are left Without the love that seemed so much a part Of each day’s life that never had we thought Of it as love, but simply life itself, What is it that comes back of her we miss With tears more bitter because shed so late? Is it the loving counsels that throng back, The wisdom doubly prized as daily proved? Is it her beauty or her graciousness That haunts me while I wake, and comes in dreams? No, no. All day and many nights and days My mind is filled with myriad little things: The way she kissed me when she tied my hood And sent me off to school, a little girl; The infinite pains she took to dress my dolls, And make me “parties” with “real things to eat;” And how she’d come a dozen times at night To bring a drink, or comfort me, afraid. My grown-up years seem sudden blotted out; And all the day and in my dreams at night I see her doing all the little things That she, when we were children, used to do. I hear the little words she used to say When I had hurt myself or some one made me cry. But now I weep: she can not comfort me; And bitterest are my tears that it’s too late To say, “I do know now how wonderful you were!” — Alice L. Wood, in Hampton’s.