Mother-Daughter relationships can be very complex.  Mine was not.  It was, actually, exceedingly simple.  We understood each other and loved each other — unconditionally and without judgement.  Sure, we fought. But, my God, did we laugh … long, loud and often.

My mother had a beautiful singing voice and a dimpled smile. She was tiny (all 4’11” of her), and yet her natural charisma gave her a towering presence.

She spoke with her eyes. We could have complete conversations, she and I, without ever uttering a word.

Her Eyes

by VALARIE M. SHEA

Gone are the eyes that watched me grow
The eyes that were able to see into my soul
Together we climbed mountains and made it through the pain
Only to find out that someday it would be forever changed

As you’ve gotten weaker, I’ve gotten stronger
Able to take care of myself even though I didn’t want to

You’d be proud of my wit, my confidence and my charm
People say I’m just like you and I know all about your charms
The eyes are in my heart, the eyes that saw my soul
But gone are the beautiful eyes, the eyes that watched me grow

Not a day goes by without me remembering her eyes.

When I look into the mirror, there they are.

Evelyn Formosa Blundell (née Alamango Cook)

March 9, 1926 – June 19, 2005

Gone, but definitely Not forgotten.

R.I.P.