The Potrait of a Mother

She is magnificent. Her eyes always seem to twinkle with humour and amusement. The corner of her lips are always turned up, as though smiling twenty-four hours a day is the most natural thing in the world. Never once have I heard her complain, or whine, or lose her temper. Her infinite patience is only matched by her extraordinary capacity to do ordinary household chores in the most elegant manner possible. Somehow, she puts up with my antics, which seems to annoy everyone but her. Every time I begin to cry, she is always there in time to lend me her shoulder and a tissue, as though she can telepathically sense my distress. Her nimble fingers have created the best last-minute projects for my class. In public, her sideways glace is enough to boost my confidence to unimaginable heights. The times of happiness in my life are always marked by her presence. Her love, it seems to me, an ever-flowing river which even a hundred suns could never dry up. She is my saviour. My constant. My best friend and my confidant. She is my partner-in-crime and my personal therapist when I’m down. She is my beacon of light, illuminating my path. She is somehow always by my side and takes up most of the space in my heart. She’s the most incredible woman I have met- role model, teacher, helper- all things wrapped up in one beautiful package. She is my mother.

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