For Moms

“—Come on, tell me,” I’d whisper to Mama when I was very small,
“Who do you love more—me or my sister?”

Mama would gently stroke us, and with the soft, “stuck record” principle, she’d always say:

“Both. Equally.”

“—But how can that be?” I’d wonder,
“My sister is older. She’s often not home.
And I’m the little one, sweet, always by your side…” I’d reason in my mind.

“Cut any finger—it will hurt the same,” I once read her way of comparing love.

It didn’t take long for me to understand myself.
Now, being a mother of three, I pour love with the same spoonful for each,
and I no longer marvel at how, when scooping so often from that motherly love “pot,”
it never runs out.

“It’s bottomless,” I shrug,
and hug my little trio even tighter, all together in my arms.

For Mamas.
For their magic.

Let us embrace our own Mamas.
And thank ourselves,
for being inexhaustible “pots” of love.

V.