Digital Access

Digital Access
Access from all your digital devices and receive breaking news and updates from around the area.

Home Delivery

Home Delivery
Local news, prep sports, Chicago sports, local and regional entertainment, business, home and lifestyle, food, classified and more!

Text Alerts

Text Alerts
Choose your news! Select the text alerts you want to receive: breaking news, prep sports scores, school closings, weather, and more.

Email Newsletters

Email Newsletters
We'll deliver news & updates to your inbox. Sign up for free e-newsletters today.
Letters to the Editor

Letter: A mother’s wish

To the Editor:

The following poem was written by Edward Syrek, who was a member of the Northern Illinois University art faculty from 1960 to 1987. He was an accomplished artist, poet, musician, teacher and athlete. He died in 1996.

A Mother’s Wish

If I could be with you a little while, my son;

If I could only see you standing here,

And look upon your shining face again,

My empty heart might not possess this fear.

If I could hold you in my arms again,

And hear you tell me that I’m still your girl,

I might not hurt so much to know you died,

Fighting evils of a troubled world.

So many years ago, it seems

Somehow, I see you in your tiny bed.

Then, tears of joy would fill your mother’s eyes;

And now just tears, my son, because you’re dead.

It was to me you came with little hurts,

And looked for pity for each tale of woe,

I’d smile with pride and hold you to my heart;

And so it was when you were called to go.

Somehow I felt it would be our last.

It hurt to smile and hide the many tears.

If I would send you off a happy lad,

Then I must not reveal a mother’s fears.

As I felt it would, it came at last.

This telegram, my son cannot replace

The precious moments of a happy past;

The memory of your sweet, your boyish face.

I’ll place it with the note that was your dad’s.

He never saw you. He, too, went to war.

For these are all I’ve left of all I used to have.

My treasures lie beneath some foreign shore.

It’s growing late, and I am slowly growing old.

It’s hard to be the last, the lonely one.

Somehow, the time is coming soon, I know;

When I will be with you again, my son.

Kay Syrek


Loading more