What does a mother do when she realizes
that her child will never witness a golden sunset
or the glory of the sun peaking over mountains
to greet the new day, nor will he stand,
slack-jawed, as a jet leaves a smoke
trail across a deep blue sky, or point,
mesmerized as a yellow-stripped bumble bee
frolics from flower to flower?
She hugs her son close to her breast and tells
him how intensely he is loved, opening his
senses to the world.
What can a mother do when she knows that
her son can barely pick out her smiling face
from the fuzzy world that fills his view,
or the brightly colored toys dangling seductively
overhead, nor the radiant smiles of his brother
and sisters as they greet him in the morning?
She uses words to describe the world, guides
his tiny fingers as he explores through touch,
what others experience with eyes, and she tells
him how intensely he is loved.
What should a mother do when her son is ready
to crawl, knowing that he will never see the
obstacles in his way until it is too late, or when
he takes that first tentative step and crashes right
into the pointed edge of the piano bench, or when
he wants to go outside and play like his siblings,
but the world is too dangerous?
She allows him to fall, just as she did the sighted
ones, for by stumbling we learn to conquer whatever
obstacles jump up to block our progress.
More than anything, a mother offers unbridled love.
That’s what a mother does.