A Story for June 25th

By Peter Bowden

Let me tell you a story, the kind that smells like summer linen and sounds like the hush of hospital halls, the kind you keep folded in the drawer of your heart.

She was born on June 25th, under skies that likely shimmered with heat and the promise of something good. Ninety-eight years ago, give or take a few quiet miracles. She wore a nurse’s uniform like armor, soft-spoken steel, stitched with care and caffeine and not enough sleep. Six children, four boys and two girls, all somehow kept fed, clothed, and pointed in mostly the right direction—miracle enough for sainthood, or something better.

She married a man who stayed by her side until 1984, when time quietly closed the door. But in this photo—this quiet, glowing portrait of her wedding day—she is still full of the beginning. The lace on her dress is light enough to float, and there’s joy in her smile that not even paintbrush or time could mute. It's the look of a woman who knows what love is and what hard days will require.

Today, we remember her not with sorrow, but with celebration. For all the scraped knees she kissed, the dinners she cooked while humming half-forgotten songs, the strength she carried without complaint. For the way she stood tall in a world that rarely said thank you.

Happy birthday, Mom. You are still here—in stories, in smiles, in every heartbeat that came after yours.

Comments

Anonymous said…
I knew your Mom and she was simply a beautiful person.
June 25, 2025 at 9:54 AM

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