Loss is a journey that often begins in silence, yet it is filled with the echoes of a lifetime of love. When a mother passes away, she leaves behind more than just memories; she leaves a spiritual imprint that continues to guide her children through the darkest nights and the brightest days. The following poem, “I Never Saw Your Wings,” captures the essence of this transition from a physical presence to an angelic guardian.

I Never Saw Your Wings

By Michele

How is it that I never saw your wings
when you were here with me?
When you closed your eyes and soared
to the Heavens I could hear the
faint flutter of your wings as you left.
Your body no longer on this side,
your spirit here eternally, I see your halo shine.
I close my eyes and see the multicolored wings
surround me in my saddest moments and my happiest times.
Mother my angel, God has given you your assignment:
always my mother, forever my angel.
You fly into my dreams and when I am asleep
I feel your wings brush against my face wiping away
the tears I shed since I can no longer hold
you in my arms, but in my heart.
You earned those wings dear mother
and you will always be my angel eternal.

The Sudden Silence of a Heart

This past week, my world changed forever. My mother passed away suddenly due to a heart attack. While her departure was unexpected and left a void that feels impossible to fill, I find solace in the fact that she lived a life full of blessings, purpose, and unshakeable faith. She was a woman of strength who walked with the Lord every day, and she made sure to instill that same spiritual foundation within my soul.

It is this faith that sustains me now. It is the belief that she has simply moved from one room to another, trading her earthly struggles for the “multicolored wings” mentioned in the poem. Her life was a testament to the power of devotion—to God, to her family, and to the traditions she held dear.

A Culinary Legacy from Modena to Iowa

My mother was not just a homemaker; she was a culinary artist who brought the rich flavors of Northern Italy to the heart of the American Midwest. Alongside my father, she owned and operated an Italian restaurant in Ames, Iowa. There, she showcased the authentic tastes of her heritage, specifically the recipes from her family’s roots in Modena, Italy.

The restaurant was a local treasure, but there was a secret that only our family truly knew: as much as the customers loved her cooking, the absolute best food was saved for our home kitchen. At home, there were no menus or timers. Everything was guided by her intuition and the “touch” of her hands. She never needed a written recipe; the measurements for the perfect pasta dough or the balance of a Bolognese sauce were etched into her memory and her muscles.

Whenever I think of her, I smell the aroma of fresh garlic and rosemary. I see her standing over a steaming pot of sauce, stirring with a rhythm that felt like the heartbeat of our home. Her love was edible. It was folded into every tortellini and tucked into every layer of ravioli she prepared for our family gatherings and holidays.

The Symbolism of a Mother’s Hands

In the final days before she was laid to rest beside my father, I found myself drawn to her hands. I spent hours touching and caressing them, trying to burn the visual image of her perfectly manicured fingers into my mind forever. To some, they were just hands. To me, they were the instruments of a lifetime of care.

The Hands That Nurtured

It was my mother’s hands that first held me when I entered this world. They were the hands that fed me, bathed me, and comforted me through childhood illnesses. As I grew, those hands became a source of practical magic. She used them to sew my clothes, ensuring I always had something beautiful to wear. She mended what was torn and pressed what was wrinkled, teaching me that taking care of one’s belongings was a form of self-respect.

The Hands That Created

Beyond the kitchen and the sewing machine, her hands were always busy creating beauty. She crocheted countless afghans, making sure each child and grandchild had a personalized piece to match their own home decor. She made quilts that provided warmth and pottery that showcased her artistic eye. She even used those hands to guide mine on the piano keys, teaching me the language of music and the discipline of practice.

An Eternal Assignment

The poem says, “God has given you your assignment: always my mother, forever my angel.” This resonates deeply with me. Though her physical hands are now still, pressed together in eternal peace and glory to God, her influence remains. The lessons she taught me—how to cook with love, how to serve others with humility, and how to maintain faith in the face of adversity—are the tools she left behind.

Grief is a heavy burden, but it is also a tribute to the depth of the love that preceded it. The tears I shed are wiped away, in my dreams and in my heart, by the memory of those hands. I realize now that I am her legacy. My hands must now carry on the traditions she cherished. I am the one who must now stir the sauce, sprinkle the rosemary, and provide the comfort that she once provided to me.

Honoring Her Memory Through Action

As I move forward, my prayer is simple: I want to use my hands honorably in her memory. I want to work with the same diligence, create with the same passion, and love with the same intensity that she did. While I can no longer hold her hand in the physical world, I know that we are connected spiritually.

For anyone who has lost a mother, the journey is never truly over. We simply learn to live with the “faint flutter” of wings nearby. We look for the “halo shine” in the small moments of beauty in our daily lives. Whether it is through a cherished family recipe or a quiet moment of prayer, our mothers stay with us, guiding our hands and watching over our hearts.

To my mother: you earned those wings. You lived a life of service, grace, and flavor. Rest now in the arms of the Lord, knowing that your love lives on through every generation you touched. You will always be my angel eternal.