(Note: I tried to write this on Mother’s Day, but I couldn’t. Finished it up today instead, the first day of my third trimester.)

Of all the deserving mothers, this is written especially for those who are not able to hold all of their children in their arms on Mother’s Day:

Motherhood is a mirror. A mother looks into the glass and expects to see a reflection of herself. The best parts glow under the light. The image stares back at her, expectantly. There is always the layer of sweet glass between her and the image. She can try to improve upon herself, try to make things perfect but if she turns away from the glass, she has no idea if the image will follow. She just trusts that it is there: a reflection, yet an existence of its own.

Add more mirrors and the light will dance and expand and reflect in exponentially larger grace. So it happens when more children are born. More mirrors are added, shining the reflection in new ways, to new dimensions. The mother envelopes them all as an extension of the original image. 

If crack appears, the mirror is broken. Sometimes shattered. The mother can still see her reflection but it is distorted, fractured. A permanent jarring. Cannot be fixed. Never whole again.

It is an existential, quiet love that once created, even in the most minuscule form, can never be erased. Can never be replaced. Will always be a reflection outward.