Though I adore the idea of Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Sandman, the Tooth Fairy, and such luminary characters—especially their altruism and devotion—I still don't believe in them. For I know the truth. Only one such miracle worker exists who performs magic in my life, seeing to my wants and needs without fail. That queen is my mother. With unwavering faith I believe in her.
LIKE MOTHER, LIKE LOVERThere is the motherWho cooks too muchTo feed her children,And there is the motherWho cooks too little,Or not at all.There is the birdThat returns to its nestWith just a frail wormAnd feeds it to her babies,And there is the birdThat kills its frail babiesJust to eat the worm.There is the loverWho argues thatThere is neverEnough love,And there is the other loverWho argues that love isAll there everWas.
My mother had comforted me with tales ever since I was small. Sometimes they helped me peel a problem like an onion, or gave me ideas about what to do; other times, they calmed me so much that I would fall into a soothing sleep. My father used to say that her tales were better than the best medicine. Sighing, I burrowed into my mother's body like a child, knowing that the sound of her voice would be a balm on my heart.
My distant but always a close friend, the loss of a mother is always painful for her children, I am beside you in this hour of grief. Life can be a stepmother , really severe! but in return also too short. soon will come the time you will say the words that you didn't said , you will do what you did not have time to do, to forgive you own for what you did not want to sayd .... Time exists in our soul, only the spirit is eternal.
Ben had never seen his mother cry before, and it startled him, so he didn't ask again. Right afterward she'd put on her favorite record and played a mysterious song called "Space Oddity," about an astronaut named Major Tom who gets lost in space. She used to listen to the song over and over again. With her eyes closed, she'd place the palm of her hand against the fabric of the speaker, so she could feel it vibrate against her skin.
Who or what do we truly need? In my opinion, anybody or anything that takes our spiritual life into harmotic state. I name it as love. For me love is harmonization of spiritual life; there cannot be any anger, anxiety, depression when you think of your love. If there is any, it means that you do not love it any more regardless to the object your love -- whether it is your mother or native land. When spiritual harmony disappears, then love dies.
There was a pause as Leopardstar strained to take a breath, and Mistyfoot half rose, ready to call for help. Then Leopardstar relaxed again. "I am sorry not to have known the joy of having kits. There was a time when I thought it might happen, but it was not to be." Her words faded away as though she was picturing something she had dreamed of long ago. "Perhaps it was for the best. But I would have been proud to call you my daughter, Mistyfoot.
Mom's eyes held yours for a moment. 'I don't like or dislike the kitchen. I cooked because I had to. I had to stay in the kitchen so you could all eat and go to school. How could you only do what you like? There are things you have to do whether you like it or not.' Mom's expression asked, What kind of question is that? And then she murmured, 'If you only do what you like, who's going to do what you don't like?
I had a dream about you. You were trying to understand the nature of nature, and I was trying to understand understanding. I thought we looked like philosophers, but your mother thought we looked like porn stars. Yes, we were naked, and yes, we were having sex, but isn’t that the best way to really go about knowing knowledge? Anyway, if your mother wasn’t happy with our teaching methods, she shouldn’t have signed up for our class.
Your mother holds you skin on skin and when you enter this world, feeds you with her own body; skin on skin. Your father runs his fingers over your tear stained cheek, presses his lips to your forehead; skin on skin. You make love, skin on skin with a man you love, a beautiful man. And then, if you’re lucky your own baby will enter this world and you’ll hold her skin on skin, feed her with your body skin on skin. It’s a magical thing.
I could no longer remember the way my mother's eyes looked before the slowing. Had they always been so red around the edges? Surely, those pockets of gray beneath her lower lashes were new. She still wasn't sleeping well, but perhaps what I was seeing was just age, a gradual shift that I'd failed to register. I sometimes felt the urge to study recent photographs of her in order to locate the exact point in time when she had come to look so weary.
Say goodbye to your mom.”Scottie pauses, then keeps going.“Scottie.”“Bye!” she yells.I grab her arm. I could yell at her for wanting to leave, but I don’t. She pulls her arm out of my grasp. I look up to see if anyone is watching us, because I don’t think you’re supposed to aggressively hold children these days. Gone are the days of spanking, threats, and sugar. Now there are therapy, antidepressants, and Splenda.
When I think of Tomodachi, I think of your mother. Your mother, she too lose her baby. She lose you. That very sad thing for her. Maybe she come looking, and she not find you. You not there when she come. She think you dead for ever. But she see you in her mind. Now as I speak maybe she see you in her mind. You always there. I know. I have son too. I have Michiya. He always in my head. Like Kimi. They dead for sure, but they in my head. They in my head forever.
We say, "It wasn't that bad. It was all my fault. I’m making all this stuff up. "All my life, I spoke bitterly of my mother's treatment of me as a child.Friends asked, “What did she do toyou?“ I couldn't really describe it, and in frustration would say, “Well, she didn't lock us up in closets." in fact, my mother behaved much worse than that, but by focusing on the empty closet, I avoided looking at what waited beyond it.
When you're pregnant, you can think of nothing but having your own body to yourself again, yet after having given birth you realize that the biggest part of you is now somehow external, subject to all sorts of dangers and disappearance, so you spend the rest of your life trying to figure out how to keep it close enough for comfort. That's the strange thing about being a mother: until you have a baby, you don't even realize how much you were missing one.
