Fridah

If I were an artist,

I could think of one painting that would be my masterpiece…

The theme of my life’s work

The centerpiece.

I would carefully swing my brush into strokes

Gentle and bold

Strong and mild

A representation of a woman whose story

I will paint in colors bright,

Not forgetting the blues and greys

Yellows and blacks like the night.

On her face; a string of gold flowing from her eyes to her bossom

For all the tears she cried from the depths of her heart

For her children, her battles and her knight

Her smile warm and assuring

Her eyes distant and dreaming

With a beaming face outshining the emerging wrinkles

Strong hands that tell of a history

A calm poise of a lady’s charm.

I would not spare a stroke to tell every story

Of how she moved mountains in the secret prayers she made

In the silence of the night where the only one present was her maker

Of the sacrifices she made

The shift in priorities…from self to her children

Of the battles still at hand, yet she has never looked stronger

Of wisdom and wit

Love and perpetual patience

I will paint a mural of my she-ro

One who has set souring standards I strive to reach

In faith

In prayer

In resilience

In wisdom

In the beauty of womanhood,

In standing …and standing..and standing..even when they thought, This is it!

Well, I am not a painter,

Just a lady messing with words, trying to define a palm among oaks

Even then, no justice can be done to her

In these few words I call a poem.

It’s like trying to fit a giant into a bottle,

For even a magic wand cannot shrink her magnificence

Nor any amounts of research portray her brilliance.

I am a daughter of a queen from an unsung dynasty

A child of a woman radiating with beauty.

So my wall will remain blank,

As I try to find words that will help bring out the hues, shades, outlines, and detail

Of my mother,

An encounter with a force,

That always leaves me in pursuit

Of the makings of a phenomenal woman

The makings of Fridah.