Mother Love is a baker. She sets me on the countertop, and she runs her fingers across my elbows. She lays flour-covered hands on my neck, and my knees. With each tickle, she kneads flesh like dough, working pain out, and folding love into the mix.
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Mother Love is a gardener. She sets me at the kitchen table, and she plants stories and lessons inside of me. She tells me about her childhood, and her dreams and my dreams. He voice passes over me like a cloud, and I am showered in her words of love, encouragement, and admonishment. She smiles, with that heavenly, motherly look she has, and it warms me. I lean to it, like flowers turn toward sunlight, and love.
Mother Love is a doctor. On the worst of days, she performs emergency open-heart surgery on me. She cuts me deeply, with honesty; she exposes and removes the malignancy, and the pain.
Angioplasty – she unclogs arteries, and dislodges cancerous thoughts from my mind. Blood and Love flow freely.
Assiduous in her bedside manner, she comforts me back to health.
She administers antiseptic in her kisses. She makes house calls.
She never forgets to call.
Copyright © 2003 Robert A. Jackson
(Whatever you think about the writing, whatever you do, PLEASE take the time to comment. I'm looking for constructive critism; blocks upon which I can build. THANKS!!! rajengineer)