A Real Mother

You nestle me into your arms,

Like an armadillo’s shell protecting its soft, vulnerable, inner body.

After all, I am your child,

And you are more than a woman.

You are a mother,

Working shifts from three in the afternoon to eleven at night,

Coming home when only the distant hum of the computer -

As I burnt the night oil (possibly working on Gatewood’s assignments) -

Can be heard.

Your hand flutters, a weak butterfly, caressing a smooth forehead,

A headache is evident;

Yet you continuously

Put us first and foremost:

Doing the laundry, cooking, cleaning

And opting to spend time with us, instead of relaxing

Every time you have a day off.

Always a gentle hand,

(The one that rubbed vapor balms unto my chest

When I had crimson, stuffed noses as a child).

The role model I wish I could become:

Beautiful in your humble and diligent nature

What more could I hope for?

Not a model mother,

No, not in the very least,

For I wanted a real mother,

And,

For that,

I have you.

(A/N: feedback is appreciated.