Philadelphia’s philanthropist, John Wanamaker, wrote this about his mother when he was 80 years old.
“My first love was my mother, and my first home was upon her breast. My first bed was her bosom. Leaning my little arms upon her knees, I learned my first prayers. A bright lamp she lighted in my soul, that never dies down nor goes out, though the winds and waves of fourscore years haves swept over me. Sitting in my mother’s own armchair which she loved – because her first born son gave it to her forty years ago – I am writing this in the evening twilight. With the darkness falling, I seem to lose myself in the flood of sweet memories, and to feel that the arms of the chair have loosed themselves to become my very own mother’s arms around me again, drawing me to her bosom, the happiest place on earth, just as she used to do in the days and nights long gone by. I feel that touch of her little hand on my brow, and in memory I hear her voice as she smooths my hair and calls me her boy, her very own boy!”
That is a great tribute!