Tonight my mom called me into her room, just me and her laying side by side. She gently stroked my hair back away from my face, speaking gentle words from a mother to her child. A tangible instance of a mother’s love. A rare thing to be able to touch the hair of a grown child— a woman, but still her baby.
This was a glimpse into my past and my future at the same time. Remembrance of my own mother’s hand, a slight sense of foreboding of knowing I too will suffer to let go of my daughters. It was difficult not to cry with gratitude for the moment, along with grief knowing it can’t last forever.