My mother said with acid edge, after a quarrelsome day,

'You know what your problem is? You think too much!'

'Oh, Mother,' I replied.  'No matter what you say,

I cannot see in black and white.  The world exists in grey.'

 

My mother said with teared distress, across her father’s clay,

'You know what your problem is? You think too much.'

'Oh, Mother,' I replied, 'why dredge we such dismay?

This waxen face is just a mask.  The soul has flown away.'

 

My mother said with patient stress on my father’s funeral day,

'You know what your problem is? You think too much.'

'Oh, Mother,' I replied, 'I listen to what you say;

For right and wrong, and life and death, I cannot explain away.'

 

My mother said with gaze direct, through cancer’s final clutch,

'I don’t understand all this! What’s happening to me?'

'Oh, Mother,'  I replied, and stilled her trembling touch,

'Remember, now, your dream of God, and don’t think too much.'                                                                               

                                                                                     Cynthia Buell Thomas

 

 

My eulogy delivered at my mother's funeral many years ago.   This explanation preceded the reading of the poem.

'In the closing hours of her illness, within her personal reality, my mother had a revelation about the meaning of life.  She called me urgently to her bedside, clapping her hands and crying out joyfully: 'God is wonderful! I never understood before! Thank you. Thank you,' she said to her visions, 'I am so grateful.'

 I originally shared this poem with my mother as the first three stanzas only, calling it ‘My Mother Said’. Now, on her funeral day, there is a fourth and last verse.'