My mother, frail and fragile, I hold her hand
up the stairs as she bobs her head;
I will always be her daughter, her friend
dancing in the kitchen to her favorite band
wearing the only color. The color red.
Frail and fragile I hold her hand.
Her hair is up except one little strand,
being sick is something she dreads.
I will always be her daughter, her friend.
With my goodbye she always understands,
that I must leave with much unsaid,
so frail and fragile I must hold her hand.
My mother’s love is true and grand,
however unworthy I am. Instead
I am her daughter and her friend.
Her death, my fear, cannot be planned.
Asleep in all her beauty, she lays in bed.
I will always be her daughter, her friend,
holding her frail and fragile hand.
up the stairs as she bobs her head;
I will always be her daughter, her friend
dancing in the kitchen to her favorite band
wearing the only color. The color red.
Frail and fragile I hold her hand.
Her hair is up except one little strand,
being sick is something she dreads.
I will always be her daughter, her friend.
With my goodbye she always understands,
that I must leave with much unsaid,
so frail and fragile I must hold her hand.
My mother’s love is true and grand,
however unworthy I am. Instead
I am her daughter and her friend.
Her death, my fear, cannot be planned.
Asleep in all her beauty, she lays in bed.
I will always be her daughter, her friend,
holding her frail and fragile hand.