“Sweetheart,” she’d say, “there’s breakfast on the table!”
You’d walk over, fresh from sleep, hearing the back door creak shut. Strawberries and cheese, a couple croissants, in your mother’s blue china plates, sit on the table. The orange juice is in a glass pitcher simply because she was always sensitive to making things pretty.
The coffee is cool but you pour it into a mug, looking out the window into her garden. She waves at you, beckoning you to join, new soil staining her gloves.
“The magnolias are blooming,” she’d say, a smile on her face, sweat on her brow. “How did you sleep? Did you dream?” She comes over to hold you, smelling like herself, like childhood. She only lets go when you do.
“Let’s go in the pool this afternoon. I want to hear about that book you’re reading.” She kisses your cheek and returns to the flowers.
You sit on the bench, say a short prayer. But your mother, she’s mastered it, though she won’t admit it. Her whole life is worship.
Katie Donohue Tona
If you liked this, you might also like: If June was a Mother
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“She only lets go when you do” oh how I strive to be a mother like May 🥰
This is so beautiful. What a sacred reflection of the glory of God