From The Archives: Thoughts For Mother’s Day
My thoughts for this Mother’s Day do not run in the direction of flowers, cards or candy but toward shirts and pockets.
The shirt in question was dirty, was for a medium sized boy generally to be found in the same condition, and the pocket on it was apt to contain fish hooks, dead earthworms and live hellgrammites. Toil worn hands cleansed boy and shirt, with only a gentle remonstrance about hating to find live, crawly things in her wash.
“But Mama, shirt pockets are to keep things in,” the medium sized boy happily would declare, secure in the knowledge that his own little world was an unchanging one, bounded by the parameters of love.
“Oh, I suppose so,” came the patient reply, always.
Then that medium-sized boy, unable to put the emotion he felt into words, expressed it simply by hugging his mother and running off to bed with face and feet reasonably clean and in-between not worth bothering about.
That kind of emotion is still impossible to express in words. And that’s why my thoughts this Mother’s Day run to pockets on a medium-sized boy’s shirt instead of to flowers, cards or candy.