Poetry : What is a Home without a mother?

What is a Home without a mother?
An original poem by Brianroy

The autumn leaves are falling,
as the leaves of the trees have turned to their hues of red, orange, and brown.

Somewhere behind them, in the distance, the sun is yawning;
ready to set, as it goes down and down.

There is a little iron gate, that loudly creaks open;
as if shouting, ‘Awake! Awake! Your son is back in town!’

And yet, the expectation of the door opening is met with silence;
the leaves gently rustling as the lonely and so familiar path is trod.

Instinctively, he knocks, and awaits for an answer;
but there is only silence as he bows his head, and begins to nod.

The house is worn with years.
The paint is faded, and run, as though streaked with tears.
The rose bushes are barren, the mailbox lays empty.
The welcome mat is collecting dust,
and the door knob is just starting to rust.

What is a Home, without a mother?
It is just a residence, a temporary place of one or the other.
When a man marries, it is the woman who truly decorates the place;
but until a child is born, her honor feels as outward as chantilly lace.
And wherever thereafter that she goes,
the sense and feeling of “home” goes with her.

It is not with the Father, who might as well treat a piece of land,
to live like a bachelor, but loving “it” as though a woman in his hand.
That is never truly a “home”; it is a property, a pride, and a demand.
But the mother who truly is a mother, she loves and nourishes and respects;
she loves by instinct and kindness beyond normal reason or intellects.

She provides a something beyond what words can describe;
decorating and nourishing as if a gift of G-D,
a taste of the living waters of G-D’s goodness and grace.
It is a sweetness that keeps the heart, mind, and soul of going, as if a heavenly dew;
until the truth of G-D’s Son,
and the Salvation of Jesus upon the Cross,
is revealed upon you.

The door now creaks open, and an ‘oh, so familiar voice’ comes from the other side;
“Come in, my son. As you can see, I am still alive.”
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The above poem was written with a mother figure who was widowed and in her 80s. The son, like a prodigal, returns after decades to the house of his youth; perhaps, keeping in contact with sparse letters and phone calls. He has had conflict with the father, which is a normal (or should I say, popular) sentiment in American Society. This poem should serve as a reminder for those who have parents still living.

Keep in regular physical visitation contact, not just by phone, e-mail, or postal mail. Watch out for them. Make sure regularly that they are well and are okay. When you reach an age where you can begin paying them back a small percentage of your pay monetarily, if they are poor, do so. For those without religion, they have no excuse to not tithe to their poor parent's well-being. If the parents are rich and have financial ease, then keep in contact.

If you have only one parent living, the moral responsibility upon you becomes greater as they advance in age. As a society, we need to be reminded and retaught basic values to both respect and take care of our elders in a loving way. For this moral reason, among many others, I oppose the Death Panels being introduced in International Law Courts, and in US Legislation under the guise of "Health Care".