My heart's quiet home

"One sonnet more, 
a love sonnet, from me 

To her whose heart is 
my heart’s quiet home"

—Christina Rossetti

I know I am one of the lucky ones, to have a mother such as I have had, whose love I never had to question, whose pride in me I had the luxury of being embarrassed by when I was younger, whose laugh always struck my ear as rich music, whose arm always felt soft and cool to my fevered cheek. I recall my mother gently coaching me face up to my mistakes when I was ten, on a morning when I feigned a stomach ache as a ploy to stay home rather than go to school and serve a detention for some infraction I had committed. I no longer recall what I did, it may have been some spoken impertinence to a teacher, all I remember is I tried to hide it from my mother, who knew anyway, perhaps the school had called her. That morning she sat at my bedside with her hand on my forehead as she explained that one could not run away from one's wrongs, one had to find the courage to meet them squarely, to make them right or to make amends. She wasn't angry with me or even disappointed in me for what I had done, and even at that age I understood that as a powerful testament to her belief in me. This was just part of the learning is how she seemed to take my misdeed. Her point was that I could not shirk the consequence, that would be cowardly and unworthy of who she knew me to be. I have no idea why this is the recollection that comes up for me today. But it is as good a reminder as any that I have been gifted beyond measure. I don't take it for granted. I love you, Mom.