Mother Love

She is talking, matter of factly. The child is playing quietly beside her.  He is studying a book. She continues speaking adult to adult. But the child quiets for an instant and she reaches across to him touching him. He continues to turn pages. It’s a brief second. Like a ignition switch touch.  Two spines entwined. I’m outside of this. The adult talking to another adult. One whose body held this child with hers for short of a year. But now still connects with a spiritual umbilical chord.  The child is comforted by the touch. Goes on with his childishness.  HIs mother is close. All is well in his world. She is beautiful in her grace

I sometimes feel this with God. My own mother long dead.  Overworked.  Used up, depleted. Spent. Sweet in death as in life.  Now there are moments when I’m comforted by synchronicity and sacredness. It’s not the same. But it’s as close as I can come long past the age of this child, this side of the other place, called haven. Where my mother is.