A Platter of Love

When you slept through the early dawn, you didn't know that your door opened. There were footsteps that passed you while you remained unaware; a pair of restless eyes moving through the dark, unsettled, until they caught sight of you. A quiet sigh was let out. Then your door was closed again, not carelessly, but with conscious and purposeful silence, so that you would not wake to the awareness of what had happened.

Then, over the cold tiles, a figure moved with light footsteps and constant goals; things that needed to be accomplished before your door would open again.

The sound of rustling utensils is no foreign to her, nor is the landscape of the sky in those early hours; its mild, dull tones, the birds doing what they do best, sun establishing its advent. She lights a spark or two. The burner glows in bluish-orange, and she begins to do what she does best: carefully curate a platter of love.

By the time you open your door, her curation is complete. Not complete for the day; complete for you.

You come to the table. A familiar plate is set before you, and you indulge; then dismiss it. Not because it is bad, but because something is missing. Her instinct, before you even finish the thought, has already carried her back to the kitchen. In her hurry for your satisfaction, she reaches for the knife and hurts herself. You are laughing. She washes the wound, and with absolute disregard for what just happened to her own hand, she serves you exactly what you wanted.

At dinner, you sit beside her. Your family fills the table, and you do not ask her how she is. Her loving conscience quietly reaches over and places on your plate what she knows you love best; and the rude self within you refuses it.

You never thought to wonder what would happen if there were no one to ignite the spark. You never stopped to ask what you would do if there were no one who did what she does best; without applause, without match. When you slept peacefully casting away your burdens, you were unaware and disregardful of the fact that there was a person who bore your burdens for you, regardless of many of her own.

She is a mother. She is the reason you exist; and the reason you continue to.

A mother is the most productive person in your life; and the least credited one. Every meal, every early morning, every wound she quietly washes and ignores is work that she does without asking for recognition.

Today is Mother's Day, she has spent years noticing everything about you. It is time you noticed her.

Author:

Raphael D'Souza