A woman turns bath time into a ritual that goes beyond hygiene, it is a bunch of dew caresses for the thin skin that seems to be the extension of hers, the food is not only an indispensable sustenance for life, is sweet nectar of the soul, threads of fantasy that travel in spoonfuls mixed up with planes or fairies that multiply the beauty and virtue of that tiny body.

Is the crying of a baby, her baby, the most imperious order the mother knows, even the most stubborn and rebel woman lay down her weapons to become a soft petal and offers her lap as consolation, her arms as cradle, her breast as pillow.

The mother caresses the first, scolds the first, she initiates us into the sacrament of kisses and hugs, anoints us with her constant support, initiates us into the mysteries of tenderness, makes an altar for her offspring, however, never gets surprised when we come down off the pedestal as grown-ups and make her addressee of our tributes, she knows she deserves them, but does not become vain, multiplies her care instead, and with grand humbleness keeps awake for us.

The mother makes the miracle of love from her fertile womb, gives us life and makes us part of her, we owe her for eternity, that credit is cancelled with a simple but sincere kiss on her cheeks, strong arms holding her body and an "I love you mommy" whisper, Happy Mothers Day!

(Guerrillero.co.cu)