To hear her was to marvel at the God that made her. And her smile? You were hurled off your feet by the ease with which it grew, by the quivering wrinkles about her eyes, by the scary kindness that was mirrored therein.

There were three of us who came forth from her but she took in hundreds and gave of herself, all she could; they yet were not her great loves.

There was only one, her One Great Love. It was He who beckoned and she sprinted, her hands held out before her, grasping for him.

I’m not quite sure which was more effective: the short bursts of energy that fueled her flattened palms to and from my sleepy frame or the cold showers in bed that left everything soggy. But every morning, I got out of bed. How could I not? “Won’t you attend Mass?” she often yelled. More than once, if she realised I thought I could snore my way through a few more moments. Everyday, like clockwork, she held our hands and led us to the Parish, only a few paces away. She was my first lesson on God.

So we three found the love she did, and caught a glimpse of what we could give to he who had spoken and she came to be. When death came calling, ravaging her lovelies, she knelt by the tree on which the Man-God hung and refused to let go. “All will be well”, she said.

I don’t think she will never know just how much of the world she’s conquered, riding on the Word of her One Great Love. Often, I stand in awe of the glorious stardust that clings so relentlessly to her. Often, I speak the name of her One Great Love. With immense gratitude for she, his dearly beloved daughter and my bejewelled mother.


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