mama ing.

It’s moving one strand of hair at a time from a feverish, sensitive forehead.

It’s the peeling off of her wool socks to pull up over the calves of a sobbing toddler when the snow and ice invade boots, saturate socks.

It’s listening to intricate book plots, nodding at the right times.

It’s cleaning gravel out of cuts  while being kicked for the trouble, soaking up glares, not laughing at pouting lips.

It’s forgiving yesterday, moving forward, remembering we all have a part to play.

Mama ing from the root to the branch to the bud to the flower to the seed borne on the wind

To the world.

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