A mother’s terribly beautiful task

I've come to realise that a mother's terribly beautiful task is this:

To send her own flesh and blood out beyond the boundaries of her love

So that he may loose her

in order for him to find himself.

To gather, in his own time and pace

all lost fragments

and put them, piece by piece,

into the image his soul was born with.

And in that gathering,

if she has done her job well,

he will recognise her

and himself

and every thing

in every piece

So that the love that he once received from her body and her heart, the love that made up his entire world

becomes the undeniable, unshakable truth of his and all existence

alive in every thing.