Poem

My Mom used to have this poem in a small dish in the china cabinet. She had cut it from a newspaper. Sometimes I would read it when noone was looking because it brought a lump to my throat. I was a sentimental little kid.

To My Grown Up Son

My Hands were busy through the day;
I didn’t have much time to play
The little games you asked me to.
I didn’t have much time for you.

I’d Wash your clothes, I’d sew and cook,
But when you’d bring your picture book
And ask me please to share your fun
I’d say: "A little later, son."

I’d tuck you in all safe at night
and hear your prayers, turn out the lights,
Then tip toe softly to the door...
I wish I’d stayed a minute more.

For life is short, the years rush past...
A little boy grows up so fast.
No longer is he at your side
His precious secrets to confide.

The picture books are put away,
There are no longer games to play,
No good-night kiss,
No prayers to hear...
That all belongs to yesteryear

My hands, once busy, now are still,
The days are long and hard to fill,
I wish I could go back and do
The little things you asked me to.