She is the story

There has always been a part of me that wish my mother was still here,

To laugh, to cry or just to hear that high pitch squeal as she attempts to yell.

I would give anything to see her at my games as she watch me let a football slip,

Through my hands as if, they were drenched in oil.

I had always been amazed by her refreshing candor and quick wittiness,

She always said don’t make her use her left arm because if we did;

She would long for a piece of leather material to carve markings into our bum,

Boy, her left arm was as fast as Sandy Koufax.

My mom was a talker with a southern accent so strong and thick,

Picture five hillbillies in a station wagon with the windows rolled up;

Talking at the same time now pause this scene and put in slow motion.

That might be an exaggeration but she hated how she sounded and so did we.

Down in the delta region of Arkansas,

She grew up in a small town 15 miles from Memphis, called West Memphis.

The only thing that separated the two cities was of course a bridge,

the mighty Mississippi and the states in which both reside.  

She was amazing, beautiful, and sweet one smile from her illuminated an entire city,

Her eyes would gaze a twilight as if she was opening a window to your soul.

As she parted her lips, every conversation was a story waiting to be told,

Her mind was like a tomb filled with great and sorrowful impressions of life.

Although my mom is physically alive,

Her grace and mind is mentally gone.

She once told me that if she ever lost her battle for her mind to remember,

That she didn’t lose her battle to love her children.