This child was her being. Her existence was a maternal caress. She enveloped the feeble and unconscious creature with love and worship. It was her life which the baby drank in from her bosom. Of nights, and when alone, she had stealthy and intense raptures of motherly love, such as God’s marvellous care has awarded to the female instinct — joys how far higher and lower than reason — blind beautiful devotions which only women’s hearts know.
–Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray
My wife is reading a little book. It shows the touch of other hands. Its spine is gone gray by touting its charms to everyone, unheeded mostly, and settling for an even century of the attention of the passing sun across the sky, slanting into homes unknown. It is a sort of a missal. It fits in the palm of the hand. The pages are like the skin of an onion. The print on the other side of the page shines through a bit, and in every way. Backwards, right to left, it shines through. This book is the little blue tent of the sky in the prison yard of my wife’s life. Inside the cover, it says that it’s part of EVERYMAN’S LIBRARY. I am beset by doubts on that score.
It was smuggled in to her by her little son. He gave it to her for her birthday. I wish I could give my own mother a present so fine, but my heart has been toughened by the calisthenics of living and it’s fit only for lifting heavy objects — and dropping them, generally. It works enough to wish things were different, which is something, I guess. I fear that there is nothing truly heartfelt left in my heart. Nothing pure. My little boy’s heart is a flower, and mine a potato. It is the way of the world. He did the exact right thing because he had no idea what he was doing. How many walking the Earth could claim that?
My wife must consort with dead imaginary people because there is no one left to talk to in this world. Only they understand her, so she takes her encouragement where she can find it.
9 Responses
You misunderstand yourself,
Mr. Sippi. " I wish I could give my own mother a present so fine, but my heart and mind have been toughened by the calisthenics of living and it's fit only for lifting heavy objects — and dropping them, generally. It works enough to wish things were different, which is something, I guess. I fear that there is nothing truly heartfelt left in my heart. Nothing pure."
The only reason you can't is it can't be done in graveyards. This is as fine a piece of writing as you've done, in my opinion. Others may disagree, but I'd ask for specific instances. You did not drop this one.
Yes, Sam is right.
Anyway, where do the little flowers come from, if not the strong roots of their fathers?
I'd wish your Mrs. a happy and blessed Mother's day, but I know she's already having one.
Sam is very pleasant, but I'm afraid he isn't right. My mother is not in the graveyard.
Happy Mother's Day to everyone that has their paperwork in order.
Oh dear – I guess that rules me out, but I'm having one anyway 😉
But since he's wrong, you did give your mother that sweet grandson, so still haven't dropped anything heavy in this case. Unless you've dumped him in her lap recently. I wouldn't recommend that.
I'm old. My mom is older. Yet I'm at that time of life when oldness sets in. So I came up with a perfect mother's day gift. Like a bolt out of the blue it hit me. My wife concurred. This will be great.
So I sat down at the store (isn't it amazing how we no longer stroll to shop, but sit down to shop at Amazon) and ordered the present. Wonderful! Free shipping even.
About a week later my wife notices a package was delivered. Immediately my old synapses begin working again. I don't remember looking up Mom's address when I was shopping through Amazon. Uh oh. Doesn't Amazon read my mind and just automatically know where things should go? Uh, NO!
It's Monday and I'm headed out to UPS.
The man builds the house.
The woman makes it a home.
Children provide the joy.
Well, then, I am glad to be so corrected for my misunderstanding!
I hope all is fine in general Sipp as the tone seems a little dark, the boys do bring light though.
What wouldn't seem dark against the pure, guileless beam of a soul that's found its home in his mother's eyes, in her smiling delight?
The J.R. always thanks me for making him a father. It is a world of knowing between us. It is enough.