The lens flickers, a polished eyeball taking in the vast world in front of it.

My mother steps back, examining her work. Her brow furrows deeply as she critiques her photos. Through the mist and decrepit bowing trees, which look as if they are trying to run away, she trudges back to our royal blue Chevy Cavalier, where I am stationed. My seat is back, the radio is blaring some horribly generic pop music, and I am thoroughly enjoying the humid early April weather.

The door clicks open and I glance at her. My mother ducks into the passenger seat and leans toward me, whispering “okay.” She clicks on her camera and flicks through each photo, asking me which I like best. I choose; it's a picture of the dead trees, mist curling around them lazily, looking like giants ready to take over the world. She gives me a little smile, placing the camera into its case. I shift the car into drive and take off.

I live for these days.

My mother is a strong woman. She's an inspiration, the way she sees beauty and art in everything around her. She has the most amazing devotion to her family, even though she may let her emotions get the best of her sometimes. I know that everything she does for our family is full of love, such as the time she went to work an hour late because she wanted to buy a DVD for my blood drive project, or the way she checks out books for me at the library, even when I haven't asked her to. Cookbooks, usually, because she knows how much I love to bake with her.

When she left our father, she took us with her, because he was an abusive alcoholic. She had recently lost her job, though, and her inability to pay the rent landed us in a homeless shelter. However, with her determination to keep her family happy even in the hardest times, she would take us to the candy shop and on hiking trips in her favorite park. I vividly remember jumping over the little brook at Regner Park with my older brothers, terrified of falling into the rushing water. These journeys kept us close while we struggled with poverty and collapse.

Thankfully, these trials ended two years later when we moved to Oshkosh to reunite with our father, who had stopped drinking the day Mom left with me and my brothers. My mother's actions won't be forgotten, however, and I admire her strength in a situation that seemed so hopeless.

Unfortunately, I don't feel I've been able to share my appreciation with her. Being a teenager, I'm really busy – with school, friends, or my own leisure. I don't always have time to go hiking or tagging along when she takes pictures for her photography assignments. I'm habitually aloof and struggle to show simple emotions like gratitude and love toward those special to me. I hope that even though I don't display my affection, my mother realizes that it's there, because I don't know where I'd be without her.

My mother is looking out the window, processing the images in front of her, deciding which will make the perfect photograph. I wish I could see what she sees: a world of abstract personality and beauty ready to be captured and appreciated. Even though I don't often say it, I will always care about this woman and love her with my whole heart.