My view…

A Mother’s Love Can Never be Measured for Good Measure

A mother’s love is the heartrending ability to hear her voice match yours as you convince her that you are okay.

When you’re not.

It’s her.

The need to surpass your expectations even though you passed that test a long time ago. She knows. She really understands it. As you display your weary but vital physique on the couch in the morning of labor, she convinces you that the temperature of your love is exactly where it needs to be. She will survive.

So will you.

Fuck ups after Fuck ups. Strings of sacrifices on my behalf and even more on hers and yet we resurface like the second coming. Only better.

The drone of a plane awakens my senses and I gaze out with longing. Don’t we always want to be on our way when time spent exceeds the maximum?

The engine beams on and my eyes follow the trajectory of a journey that represents what’s to come as I embark on yet another unknowing adventure into yonder. The beautiful and effective have no place in this world. Yet, I loiter around in the hopes that the aliens won’t recognize my code.

The plane is gone. Faded away into the bosom of clouds that I’ve begged to receive me. I am still waiting for the signal.

I wonder how long the stretch was and whether anyone has bothered to really calculate every inch of the wings resistance to the elements that abound.

How much does she really love me?

I refuse to answer because if I do — I will cry. I want to be happy for her. As the tears stream down my face the warning of a “voicemail” comes through.

I listen.

We are beyond that.

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