A Mother's Gifts

​     Part 4

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    The second gift is almost the size of the first. It is crimson.

    It is the gift of Love.

 

 

    Discomfort returns, with frequency.

    I’m hungry. Or wet. Sometimes both.

    I cry to announce my condition. It’s my only voice.

    And each time, the discomfort ends.

    Gentle hands attend to me.

    They feed me. They wash and wrap me. They keep me clean, and dry, and warm.

    The hands lift me. I am rocked, and stroked, and cuddled.

    And a voice speaks to me. I recognize the sound. I heard it, distant and muffled, when I was growing in the special place. The voice is tender, and soothing.

    And eyes gaze deep into mine—as the hands hold me, and the voice coos my name.

    I smile.

    I am safe here—with the hands, and the eyes, and the voice.

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          Part 5.

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