There are roses, outside my window. The bushes are small, young. When I wake, still tired, from a night filled with the interruptions of life as a mother: a small knee in my kidney, the snuffles of an overtired, slightly sick child as he squirms closer to the warmth of my heartbeat, an exploded nappy, a nightmare… the first thing my weary eyes see in the early morning light are the blooms growing in the red rocks of my little garden.
Three of the small bushes were Mothers Day gifts from my children, purchased in a little flurry of panic by the relevant parties because I was so distressed at the lack of tokenised love. It was silly to be so upset, and yet, children, who love so easily and unquardedly, must be taught how to show it, just like the rest of us. Autistic kids, who love deeply and complexly, need to be taught how to communicate it. It is easy, in the general scrum of life, to forget the deep, and simple, and fundamental things.
Every morning, the fragile, brightly coloured heads of my rose bushes remind me to choose a path of love, and to choose to walk that path with small hearts in tow.
Thanks for this .Honesty and truthfulness are so beautiful.