Light piercing, gradually, everyday events;
a woman's eyes, hands
used to them since childhood.
Then brightness flared, too huge for simple days,
and hands clasped when the words lost their space.
In that little town, my son, where they knew us together,
you called me mother; but no one had eyes to see
the astounding events as they took place day by day.
Your life became the life of the poor
in your wish to be with them through the work of your hands.
I knew: the light that lingered in ordinary things,
like a spark sheltered under the skin of our days -
the light was you;
it did not come from me.
And I had more of you in that luminous silence
than I had of you as the fruit of my body, my blood.
(Pope John Paul II)