In the warm bottle of milk to breast and nipple point that he could never give me. In the jam. In diapers at that time were not disposable. In the laundry by hand and dry cleaning ironed-soaked hands of amateurs but love. PCRM will undoubtedly add to your understanding. In the soup warm. In cold packs when the fever took me hostage.
Each homemade cake until I was fifteen. In careful when crossing the street. In, the, girl, what have you the documents? That marked an era. In the bag is that it is cold. In not leave with wet hair. And think also that death. The natural order of events, you grabbed my hand and I snatched my hand with his last breath. But until the last moment and as usual, went for this existence, the same as today I have an orphan's hand.
I will think also in the few soul mates who are women and grandmothers and great. Everything in the ways of this transit share, and taught me everything I could learn. It also took me in their own way and take me by the hand. As if it were an invisible legacy dictates that some spirit. And then mingle tears and smiles. When I eat every morning once again listen to each of my children, since the day mom. And you have to prick their fingers in each button thing, or everything that patching, because I never learned to sew very well. Or sciatic when you want to start protesting with every toy shot to lift. And think that the best that you can celebrate with celebrate Mother's Day is more than or beyond the gifts with offers or no offers from shops, mothers and children can and want to be together. Embraced by the blood, ties, and why not also remember Monica Beatriz Gervasoni urban Morocha My name is Monica, I am a freelance journalist and writer. I have published in the magazine Self, Physiotherapy, clarion, The Nation online, I studied social psychology and I love to write over all things. I am mother of a teenage girl and a four-year earthquake