The last stanza of this poem, written by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton,
hung on the wall of my home growing up, and therefore has also hung on the fringes of my heart forever.
My mother could have written this poem.
It was a sort of mantra of our home..
Not that the laundry and the dishes and the dust never got taken care of. They did, often with the help of me and my siblings.
But the laundry and the dishes and the dust were not the products my mother was creating. They were not the point or the goal or the standard.
Instead they were the byproducts of what was the point-our family life, our childhoods.
And knowing that as a child was huge.
Happy Mother’s Day to all you mommas of all kinds today.
And Happy Mother’s Day most of all to my momma, Tanya Beverly Jackson.
I couldn’t ask or dream up a better momma for me if I tried.