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My Mother's Love
by Michael Escoubas

Looking back I'm with her now
my small hand lost in hers.

We're off on one of our
many walks—it was the walks

we took in early spring
that I remember best—

there was a fragrance
in the air as we picked

our way carefully among
the bluebells and yellow

daffodils. She said, take care,
let's not trample beautiful

things. There were robins
and red birds on the way,

the air was crisp and chilled.
We wore light wraps-her strong

hands were always warm. I loved
our walks but I would have loved

them even without the blue bells
and daffodils, because all that really

mattered was the love I felt
in the confident swish of my

mother's dress and my small
hand safely hidden in hers.



 Photo Credit: Pat Kunkel

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