I walked the floor when you were small,
Across the kitchen and down the hall.
When you would wail and fight to rest
And finally lay your head upon my breast
As sleep would claim you after all.
The familiar steps I trod again
As your first small teeth were coming in,
With tummy aches and dreams gone bad,
Comfort in the path was all we had
Was all we needed as the dawn peeked in.
The path grew worn; the years flew by,
The comfort always there.
Recited each time we pass the framed copy
of the Lord's Prayer.
My mother hung it there, impossible to miss
As I tuck you in each night with
a prayer and a kiss
Upon your silky hair.
Trodden once again, the path so dear,
As the hour of curfew draws near.
I'd dive into my bed
so you would never know
The walk I took to wait for you,
or how I worried so,
As the car upon the drive announced
that you were here.
With firm and solid look upon your face,
Your picture hangs as if in grace
Beside the copy of that prayer
While you are stationed over there
Till you return from Hell's front gate.
To be a Hero's mother is an awesome thing
As the flowers struggle forth to herald spring.
Once again I walk the floor
Across the kitchen and to the door
Till you come home again.
Until that time, please go with God.
Let him direct the paths you trod.
Till You come home again,
Till you come home again.
In all you do, where war may lead-
Go with God.
My son is currently serving with the
US Navy in Operation Iraqi Freedom
