In the garden of memory, where echoes reside, Mom's gentle laughter dances on the breeze, Her Red Sox cap, tilted with pride, A symbol of victories and carefree pleas. Bowling nights under the amber glow, Pins crashing, but she was light on her feet, A poet's heart in the lanes she'd show, Crafting verses, symphonies discreet. On driving trips where roads would twine, We'd get lost among the whispering pines, Maps forgotten, the journey so fine, Each turn a chapter, each stop a line. In the embrace of her poetic seas, Her words remain as cherished odes, Lifelines in moments of gentle tease, Guiding us through life's winding roads.