My Mother

My mother

The miracle of life. How simply awesome, that we can actually make other people? And a mother, she holds a group of cells in her body as they divide and grow and develop into another living being. It is simply incomprehensible—of course explainable—but incomprehensible jus the same. I like to think that the revered place that we give to our parents is something that goes without question, as we get older, and as they do too.

I think we’ve moved away from this, however. I’m afraid sometimes that we’ve moved away from our humanity, in search of civilization. Its very difficult to be aware of the very miracle of our existence, and to appreciate what every person’s mother has given them, when you’re running from the 255 to the 88 bus, with just enough time to catch the train from the junction to, well, you get it. Where is the place for reverence in city life today? Where is your place for reflection, and for appreciating how amazing it is to be alive? I’m really not sure for myself. I used to have a sense of it. Maybe I left it in a seat on the number 88.