When I was just a small child, I remember when Mama would holler out for me, “Child, where are you?” She would look everywhere in the neighborhood.

When I heard the desperations in her voice calling out my name, I would stand up and say, “Here I am, Mama.”

She would take my hand and walk me back to the house, take me to my room, and tuck me in for the night. She would say, “Dear, if you have a nightmare, just holler out and Mama will be here.”

As the years went by and I grew up, Mama’s hair turned to silver. Each day, Mama would holler out to me, “Child, where are you?”

I would answer, “Here I am, Mama.”

She could hardly walk, now, and the arthritis, in her hands, would not let her do much of anything. But, somehow, she managed to walk me to my bedroom door each night and say, “Dear, if you have a nightmare, just holler out and Mama will be here.”

As I grew stronger, Mama grew weaker. But, somehow, she managed to go on.

Sometimes, I would go to my room at night and cry myself to sleep. Her suffering was hurting me, too.

With each new dawn, we would smile at the world, together, as Mama was always there.

Today, as I walk down this aisle, with tears in my eyes, “Mama, I can see there is no more pain by the smile on your face. Though you’ll be gone from this earth, you will live forever in my mind and in my heart.”

Someday, we will meet by the river of Jordan and I will once again hear you say, “Child, where are you?”

I will stand, with my arms outstretched, and say, “Here I am, Mama.”

© by Robert H. Gilbert, Jr. RGBLUEBOY@aol.com