A child picks his mother a flower and hands it to her with a big smile. She looks into his eyes, then at the flower, and smells it. She smells it and giggles as she places it in her pocket because it is too precious a gift to be left behind.
When she gets home and peels those sweaty clothes off her tired body, she takes no notice of the wilted flower that has fallen to the ground from her pocket. This magical flower lies there and humbly awaits her attention.
Her children sleep at last, surrounding her with legs and arms as she slowly wiggles out so that she can have a much needed shower, reading time or maybe even a cup of chamomile tea. Her legs tread slow as the exhaustion settles into her body.
She picks up a pillow here, a toy car there and, without even realising she is doing it, begins to sweep the floor. These motions are like breathing to her now.
As she walks to the kitchen, she sees it. .
The flower from this morning. The gift from her child.
She picks it up and smells it again, but this time she takes a much deeper inhale. As her breath deepens, she is overcome with love and gratitude. How has the Universe been so kind to her? How innocent are these children she has… How sweet. How absolutely pure of heart to gift her such a flower?
The tea takes time to brew as the flower stays cuddled in her fingers. Every detail of this flower is now known to her.
As quick as she could muster her hands to move… She switches off the stove. Her tired feet take her back to the slumber of barefeet, tiny fingers and light breathing….
She cuddles right back into the embrace of what seems like a million years of love. Back into the little arms of her Universe.
A child picks his mother a flower