By mid June, Roger knew it would not be much longer before he had to say goodbye. The woman who had held his hand on the first day of kindergarten, who had kissed every boo-boo, and who had taught him how to pray, the woman who had been the light of his life for so many years, was fading quickly. It was cancer. He sat at her bedside while she slept, holding her weathered hand, and thought back to his childhood. She had been, to him at least, the closest any woman had ever come to being a perfect mother, even when he had been as far from being the perfect son as any boy could get.

He smiled faintly through his tears while he reminisced about the times that she had packed up a picnic lunch just for the two of them whenever she saw that he might be pondering a wrong path as a boy. She would take him by his dirty little hand and smile, and they would walk to the far end of the back yard and sit together on the cool grass under the shade of the big maple tree, where she would have a picnic basket waiting with overstuffed peanut butter and banana sandwiches and grape soda, his favorites. There they would sit and talk, and read the Bible together, sometimes until evening, and she always seemed to say just what he needed to hear, and he had often hoped to see the picnic basket under the tree when he came home for lunch. He always felt a great sense of debt when he thought back to how she had given her valuable time so freely while she was working two jobs to support them and rarely got any time for herself.

He left her bedside to gaze out of the bedroom window where he could see their picnic spot. As an adult looking back, he knew that their little picnics under the maple tree had shaped him into the man, husband, and father that he had become. He sighed deeply and kissed her forehead. She awoke and he said goodbye, the kids would be waiting for him to pick them up from school soon, and there was a busy evening ahead for him at home. She smiled like she always did and told him to kiss her grandbabies for her.

As Roger went about his chores and duties that evening, thoughts of his mother occupied his mind. She had given him so much but had asked for so little in return. He knew he could never hope to repay her for the wisdom, faith, love, and devotion she had given and taught him over the years, but he also knew he could not let her go without saying goodbye in an extraordinarily special way.

The following Saturday afternoon was warm and sunny, and the branches of the maple cast shadows on the lawn that danced in the breeze. Roger and his mother sat together in the cool grass and ate peanut butter and banana sandwiches with grape soda and talked and laughed until evening. He read to her the verses from the Bible that he knew were her favorites, and she directed him to some that he had never read before. When the sun began to set, and the breeze took on a chill, Roger helped his mom back into the house, but she kept looking back over her shoulder toward the old maple tree. She gave her only son a kiss on the forehead, and Roger left for home after promising to pick her up for church in the morning. She waved to him through the front window as he drove off, and both hoped that the other could not tell that they were crying.

Roger's mom went home to the Lord quietly in the night, peacefully, lying on the cool grass under the boughs of the maple tree with her Bible at her side. And, tucked within it's pages, Roger found a worn photograph taken by a neighbor years before of a mother and her young son having a picnic in their backyard under the maple tree, and on the back of the photo, he found a note.

Dearest Roger,

I'll never be able to repay you, my dear son, for all of the wonderful afternoons we spent under this old tree. I know that as a boy you probably would rather have been off with your friends, but you always found time for your Mom. It was hard sometimes dear, as you may know, trying to raise you by myself. The stresses of work and the world often weighed heavily on me, and whenever I felt like I just couldn't go on, I packed up our little basket with a picnic, and I looked forward to spending the day with you. Our picnics always left me renewed and ready to go on another day. Over the years when I have thought back on our picnics, I have often felt a great sense of debt to the little boy who so selflessly gave of his valuable playtime to be with his mom. I love you, my dear Roger. I'll be waiting for you in heaven under an old maple tree with grape sodas and peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

Love,
Mom

Danell Kerber
I am a mother of 3 boys and am also their homeschool teacher.  I am a novice freelance writer when I am not changing diapers.