It isn't easy to write about you, mom.

Writing words for you feels harder than a novel’s end,

Because you are not just my mother — you are my heart, my friend.

You and I have walked through storms no one could see,

Cold, dark echoes that still live inside of me.

It isn’t easy writing about you — it never is.

You are a flower born once, untouched by time’s abyss.

You never wither, never fade away,

Your love has no conditions, no price to pay.

We talk for hours — there’s always something new.

We fight, we laugh, we cry — and I only do that with you.

You are my shelter, my safest place,

Even when I stand alone, I still feel your embrace.

It isn’t easy to write your name,

Because my eyes would flood like hurricanes.

Strong winds rising, wild and free,

Breaking houses, shaking trees.

But hear this, Mom, and keep it near,

Hold it softly, year by year —

Like our little flame that will not move:

I love you.

I need you.

I miss you in every breath I breathe.

I see you in every moving breeze,

In every wind that bends the trees.

You are like them — bringing air to this world so wide,

And never forget — you are the hope that opens inside.