by Emily Fridley

There’s a proverb of sorts that I’ve read somewhere, akin to “God could not be everywhere, so he created angels instead and called them mothers.”

Mine must be one of these. For there are few and far between that can even hope to be compared to her divinity and grace. Her being emits class and joy. It demands all the love and respect one can give. She holds her tongue, but I know it can chop someone down faster than an axe to a sapling and soothe one’s wounds a moment after. My mom is a warrior, smiting demons and monsters left and right, leaving enough for me to conquer. She shows me how, praying one day I can do the same for my children. With her as my teacher, I know I can.

She is lightning in a thunderstorm, quick and dangerous; creating light in my darkest hours. She is love; she’s the voice in my head, reminding me not to do something stupid; she’s the compass that guides me home when I’ve been led astray; she is the rope that tethers me to the ground so I don’t float off into the never-ending expanse that is my mind. She is always more than what I need and never less than what I want.

This does not contain a title. Despite having written so much, despite having such an expansive vocabulary, despite my way with words as my mom will so ardently mention to any and all who will listen, I could not find a word—or string a few of them together—that would wrap this together like a bow on a beautiful present. This short dedication pales in comparison to the wonder that is my mom. These sentences are mere black ink on white paper. They do not shine like her smile. They don’t warm a soul like her love. They are less than that fierce twinkle in her eye and fall flat in describing her incandescent heart. Words, even her own daughter’s, cannot touch her.


Category: Fiction, Short Story, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing