Some mothers have nothing in their arms but the ache of the needing to hold their child. Some mothers started and grew, but found their garden suddenly empty. Some could never get their gardens started, no matter what they tried. Despite many many false starts. No volume of tears was enough, no amount of gentle tending, not even a thousand prayers. Some mothers had five, ten, fifteen little dreams and wishes, a noisy brood never to be, silenced before they had a moment to cry mummy.
Some mothers still and always will ache for that one missing little heart. Missing because life allowed them part of their dream, but not the whole. Some, because one went out and never came back. The dream and the memory of the soft cheek and the sweet smell and the darling voice will be an everyday torture for some mothers.
Some mothers hold their little dreams right there in their arms, together in a hell of poverty, hunger, violence, grief. Some mothers slave at machines while fevered angels sleep at their feet. Some mothers forage until their knuckles bleed in the hope of finding a scrap to eat or sell. Some mothers hide in fear from a tyrant, throwing themselves into harms way to protect the innocent. Some mothers are lost in the dark of a cracked mind, sad for no reason, or some reason.
Some daughters and sons wake with red eyes and heavy hearts, a hole in their lives, pain to live with. Some partners, sixty years of love lived, wake in an empty bed for the first time, and will never get used to breakfast alone. Some mothers may not be mothers, but have mothered the lost and unwanted and are every bit a mother.
To the mothers, the missing ones, the broken ones, the tortured ones, the almost ones, the hurting ones, all kinds, every one.