A Bouquet for a Mother

In the heart of spring, amid the blossoming of the flowers, the universe celebrates Mothers' Day. And upon my life, spring has never gloried in love growing tender within its folds, nor in dreams that fill its mornings and its evenings, nor in blossoms coquetting, sweet scents wafting, and warblings that intoxicate—as it has gloried in having this singular day set at its head, the day that reminds a man (and what man forgets?) of her who, after God, created him; and behold, the mother is a full moon, and all these things are halos surrounding that moon.

...What wonder? Did not the Godhead keep yearning and burning, until one night it was in Bethlehem, "and behold, a little child asleep in Mary's bosom"?

And on the cross he uttered two names: My God—and, to his beloved disciple: care for my mother!

And of old, insult among the Arabs never split open upon anything more hateful than: You have no mother!

...And today, on the day of your feast, what shall we offer you? A bouquet of flowers, a present from the markets? Perhaps!

As for me, I shall offer you thanksgiving for the gifts and qualities you made grow in me, and for love, and for the abundance you poured out to me with the milk: faith in God and love for mankind; that I be a hand for the needy and two eyes for the blind; that I do good and speak the truth and give heed to beauty; that I live the "superstitions" in this age of knowledge—believing in faithfulness, uprightness, and humanity, and living them...

Talents were left to me: will you then see me investing them well, and laying them (on the day we meet) at your feet? And behold, in your face is the radiance I knew, and on your lips the smile I see wherever I go; and behold, your arms open, and my forehead is moist with a kiss!