Hope is a mother to me

She walked into my home one day

and hasn’t yet left.

She wraps me in her arms

when I need her most

and whispers in my ear,

“you are so loved.”

I call out in the night,

and she arrives:

a cold glass of water

a soft hand for my cheek.

Her mothering gives me courage:

I rise and face the day

with her lips pressed

against the top of my head,

the sparkle of her laughter

following me through the door.

She is home to greet me

as the day’s events disappear.

I collapse on her lap

as she strokes my hair

and reminds me,

“I’m here, child —

I’m here.”

I am my mother’s daughter.


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