She’s the whisper of the leaves as you walk down the street.
She’s the smell of certain foods you remember, flowers you pick, the fragrance of life itself.
She’s the cool hand on your brow when you’re not feeling well.
She’s your breath in the air on a cold winter’s day.
She’s the sound of the rain that lulls you to sleep; the colours of a rainbow.
She is Christmas morning. Your mother lives inside your laughter.
She’s the place you come from, your first home, and she’s the map you follow with every step you take.
She’s your first love, your first friend, even your first enemy, and nothing on earth can separate you, not time, not space—not even death.
