I praise my moms hard working hands
The cottony wash cloth clinging to my forehead,
the sign of my fever, slowly fading.
I remember falling off of that orange mongoose bike
I remember that wooden ramp calling my name
Asking for me to jump it.
I remember my knee stinging, slowly bleeding, crying like crazy,
And sure enough I see my mother,

running out of the glass patio the door.

Whether she is making those fresh powder sugar brownies,
Or cleaning up the messes , she does it all.
Because of this I want  to be there for my mom
As she has been for me,

From the time I was small

Now that I am tall.
My mission has been to repay her,
For the path that she paved for me.

Even on my hardest days

when I don’t feel like trying

I look at my mother and her loving hazel eyes

And I know to keep trying.