My mother portions out her love in the folding of towels.
Gently, she overlays one layer with another, and with efficient tenderness lays them down, stacks them up, and puts them away. One pile for my sibling, and another for me.
There will always be another load of washing to be done, even when from her home we are gone. And the folding of towels will always go on.
My mother portions out her love in the songs that she sings. Lullabies from early sleepy-head days echo through the years and comfort us here. Even when her throat is dry, the melody in her heart rings free and clear.
My mother portions out her love in the wiping of tears, the calming of fears and the hope that she speaks. We cry in our infancy, our youth and our adulthood, and our mother has equal portions in each season for us both.
My mother portions out her love in the hugs that she gives, the time that she takes and the laughter she shares.
My mother portions out her love in infinite ways. No portion is measured, nor kept for herself, for in unending portions, she gives her love away.