Only a mother knows what it is like to wait for her child's return.
Relief that first day you walk home from school alone kicking that pebble ahead of you.
Little did you know that she was on her knees half the day praying your heart would not be crushed
And it wasn't, not really, until that day in junior high, and you rush past her without a word, slam the door of your room. But her voice pries open the door and her arms around you accidentally bump the Niagara faucet of tears, her pulse a Richter scale for shattering sobs erupting from a ruptured friendship.
You start leaving in stages, stay away longer each time. Pack less. You touch home base, eat quickly, gather treasures and go learn from other mothers and fathers and brothers in arms. And a mother knows this is why she raised you, praised you, prays for you, stays for you. Waits for you in empty rooms once filled with your light.
She loves life too and lives it well. But it's never so full as when you fill her sight, walk by her side, share with her your other loves. She waits for this.
A mother loves you first and longest.
Perhaps history and kindness will show if she has loved you well.
