My Mother

My mother’s face was heaven on earth. Does love get stronger after death? Do those who depart persist, more and more, in their being present? In order to rest from any fatigue, I only had to look at her, to run to her eyes which had almost broken up with the sight of the earth and those on it. My mother did not fall asleep until her hands became her eyes. Yet, her eyes remained a call for me to be at peace, to remember that I am not alone in this life arena. I value friendships. However, with my mother, I experienced the meaning of the love that does not seek its own, the meaning of the steadfast love that does not change under any circumstances. My mother spent her life with her heart always open. Weariness has no way to reach her. What is hers is ours. She is a support; a lifeline; an icon that does not stop praying for those who love her. This is my mother. This is your mother. Every mother is perfect love and prayer.