It’s here.
Again.
Beautiful and brutal.
Gut wrenching for the Smiths from a dozen angles while also displaying a vast array of flowers, tropical, indoor-outdoor whites, greens, shades of purple, yellows, sturdy, strong and luscious, endless developing beauty – reaching for sunlight, proclaiming life and charisma – even within our motherless home.
It’s the early 2000s and Mother’s Day: the boys wake, wander into my room, at least one son is aware of the day given the things he had to draw, cut, glue and colour at school for me, his dad-mom. Blanket strewn over his shoulders and with an inspiring attempt at positivity, he says, “Happy Mama-Day, Dadda”, and I embrace him and then his brother trailing dutifully behind.
At lunch friends see us and platitudes flow, attempting kindness…