I have an old chest of my mothers

Filled with something for which I care.

 Placed there inside, neatly in rows

Are the combs mother wore in her hair.

Some are inlaid with gold, some with gems

And some are plain, for everyday wear.

There also, tied with a ribbon of blue,

Is a lock of her Sable Brown hair.

How often I sat and watched as she brushed,

Then fashioned the strands in a braid.

How I marveled as she combed and pinned

And the fancy hair-dos that she made.

Then she placed the combs just rightly so

That they would surely be seen,

All around her head like a halo

Enhancing her hairs silken sheen.

How I love to look at those combs

And stroke the lock of her hair,

Remembering days long gone by

When she was so young and fair.

How I cherish that old worn out chest,

The combs and the lock of her hair.

Each hold in my heart sweet memories,

A treasure far beyond compare.

For she’s gone to be with Jesus now,

And instead of combs  for her to wear

Her head is graced with a golden crown,

 There's no need for combs in her hair.

So, I place them gently in the chest

Along with the lock of her hair,

And brush a tear drop from my cheek,

Knowing someday I'll meet her there.

©Lora Cox

Clip Art, Absolute Web Graphics