To the women who mother.
However that looks.

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To the ones who didn’t wait for a sonogram to start caring.

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To the 2:14 a.m. "I'm here" and the 6:00 a.m. lunch-packing.

 

To the "text me when you’re home" and the blue light of a phone held in the dark, waiting for the only notification that matters.

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To the mothers who began in a delivery room and the ones who began at 3:00 p.m. on a Tuesday, when a social worker held a folder and a door opened.

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To the aunts in the front row. The older sisters who grew up too fast so someone else could grow up slow.

 

The mentors who gave you the one sentence that fixed your compass.

 

To the ones who live across oceans, and the ones who live in the way you fold a towel, or the specific, stubborn way you steep your tea.

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To the rookies, terrified of the silence. To the veterans of forty years, still looking for the rulebook that doesn't exist.

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To the loud ones. The "did you eat?" three-times-an-hour ones.

 

The ones who stepped into the empty space and simply stayed.

 

Today is for the celebrating and the remembering.

 

For those holding a hand, and those holding a memory of the woman who taught them how to love like this.

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To every woman who showed up and stayed. However that looked.

Today is yours.

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