[Verse 1]
Sunday pancakes on the cracked Formica, you hum that old hymn with flour on your face,
Callused fingers braid the day into a braid of biscuits, coffee steam and grace.
A patch of tomatoes by the back fence, mint in a jar on the sill,
You whistle when the porch swing creaks, your lavender scent hangs in the spilled light still.
[Pre-Chorus]
You always said, "Keep your shoulders back, but keep your heart soft, child,"
Taught me how to mend a sleeve, how to stand when the road runs wild.
[Chorus]
Oh mamma, your porch light's steady through every weather and every night,
Your laughter folds the dark in half and turns the wrongs a little right.
From the jar of pickles on the shelf to the hymn you hum before the start,
You’re the quiet metronome — the rhythm that keeps my whole world from falling apart.
[Verse 2]
You cut coupons for comfort and sewed hems to hide the holes we wore,
Stayed up the night the pipes froze, boiling tea and counting every chore.
You drove me through that thunderstorm with boots half-pressed upon the floor,
Said, "Child, pack your dreams, not your doubts," then kissed my fear right out the door.
[Pre-Chorus]
You'd hum that tune about the river — how it knows to find the sea,
Taught me how to plant and wait, that patience grows where love will be.
[Chorus]
Oh mamma, your porch light's steady through every weather and every night,
Your laughter folds the dark in half and turns the wrongs a little right.
From the jar of pickles on the shelf to the hymn you hum before the start,
You’re the quiet metronome — the rhythm that keeps my whole world from falling apart.
[Bridge]
Remember the winter when the check bounced and we learned how thin hope bends?
You stayed up stitching blankets, mending more than cloth — you mended friends.
When the doctor said the words that shook the kitchen tiles, you held my hand and said,
"We plant our feet and stand our ground," and woke before the sunrise to make my bed.
[Chorus — Final]
Oh mamma, porch light steady through every weather and every night,
Your stories lined the rafters, turned the ache into something bright.
From the patch of garden gate to the lullaby you sang apart,
You’re the heartbeat in my freight of days — the rhythm that keeps my whole world from falling apart.
[Outro]
Forever grateful for the flour, the hymn, the tea, the steamed-up glass,
Mamma, you’re the map that always points me home, and I’ll carry you as long as I can pass.
