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.
She is on her knees while you sleep. Begging the God of her hour to give her daughter what she wants without fail. Whenever you wake up in a sweat as the days ahead torment your soul — the breeze that beckons you back to sleep isn’t the Lord.
It’s her.
It was her all along. The happiness of the news that combines your beliefs and spiritual alignment are able to meet at the point of desire.
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.
It will all work out because she said so. Nothing in the bible of knowledge or in the crevices of the tusk that bids your allegiance can compare to the tone in her voice. When she says it with all her might.
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.
After we rehashed the old and the new, I stayed put. The sirens blasting into the window of the house that isn’t mine missed the attention of my ears. How still the mid-morning traffic passes through — when you are enveloped in the love of the one that carried you and refuses to release the burden of her joy.
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?
As I slide back to recent memory — the phone rings. It’s her.
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.
She knows. I call her back. We cry together. I stop mentally measuring our love. From where I’m sitting — it will take a lifetime to imagine it.
We are beyond that.
