She keeps those hands busy this mamma of mine. She loves in action and says more with yeast and flour than others can, even with all of their flowery words. Her love smells like gingerbread, tastes like huckleberry pie.
She clothed me in jumpers, the worlds most extraordinary Halloween costumes and hand stitched quilts.
It was the sick beds and the home remedies and the makeshift oxygen tents.
It was murals on our walls and wooden mouldings carved.
It was every shirt ironed, every field trip attended, every sports event observed.
It was intricately decorated birthday cakes and handmade cards.
The garden was grown, the dough was made, the Christmas bread always baked. It was family meals twice a day at least.
It was the way we watched her love her daddy in his last days, not with poetry and sappy cards but with daily lunch fed, walls decorated, toenails trimmed. I think it was then I understood for the first time, the depths of this expression of love.
It is the language she speaks the dialect we all understand.
It isn’t really a surprise then is it? That if I like working with you I will buy your coffee, bring you baked goods. If you show up at my house and say “I just ate” I really have no idea how to show concern for you. If you have recently birthed a 15 pound baby, I don’t know how to help but to show up with a casserole. It is possible that I only understand your acts of service, your reckless hospitality.
And so. Though I can’t always (read as never) proclaim my love from the roof tops? Thankful that my man understands the sentiment behind a well marinated steak, a breathing bottle of red.
And mamma of mine? I love you so much and I understood every word you ever baked.
Linking with Emily and
What was it your mamma did that made you know you were loved? Something other than the words? Share in the comments?
Putting it all in the ‘be a better mamma vault!