Tricia Alexander Art

“Happy Mother’s Day to all ladies!” So, he said.

“Not all ladies are mothers…typing, delete…. typing…. Happy Mother's Day to those who are…. Sorry, not all mothers are ladies!” I couldn’t help but.

“What are you saying?” A retort, by the doe.

“Whaat!!! We have mothers who are men?” Came the fair lady.

“Yes, in this world we live in,” I replied.

“Are ladies not mothers? Meza Brufen!” And so, on, it went.

A witty sentiment here, a pan there, and a little more leg pulling and straight-up admonition.

Now, come with me, my dear reader, tell me, help me understand this predicament, the paradox that is modern man, and all their bandied words.

Some of you remember cold nights and warm soup, the reassuring purr of your mother's words as she nursed you until the fever broke.

The gentle, warm fingers cleaning your scabs after an afternoon of misadventures, a pull of the ear, and your first jerican of water from the lake (mmh, allow me).

Are you still with me?

Well, for some, the cold nights might have drawn on, like an inescapable torment in the garden of earthly delights. A whip in place of a pat, not a kind word, except a stranger's pity, dangled like a carrot.

This, and the love that is, that clothes you like a shoal, enveloping your misery, whispering, “the sun will shine.”

And it always does.

Rebirth is painful. Yet isn’t it easier going forward when you know you can’t go back?

Life again. Begin again, all new. The way you always wanted it. You get another chance….

And it is Mother's Day.

Happy Mother's Day!