She mended fingers and knees when they were hurt, her touch cleaner than Band-Aid, warmer than cream, banishing screams.
She mended wounded spirits were hopes were dashed, her confidence enough to re-inspire with hope that lasts.
She mended broken hearts as friendships passed, her own heart ever wounded ever hiding its own pain.
She mended suffering souls when love grew hard. She put the pieces back again and proved her children worthy of her care.
She was their mother. She was always there until she wasn’t. And then they mended, tended her, pronounced their mother loved and worth their care.