Sometimes the sadness feels paralyzing. My body aches to lay my head against the softness of my mom’s neck and to drape my hands around her belly…the same place that housed and birthed me. I can never forget the feel of her skin, how delicate her hands felt at the end, and yet every cell reverberated with love. She was immunocompromised, in and out of the ICU and I was dripping in toddler germs. My last few opportunities to see and touch her were through masks and latex gloves. A mother’s body is also half owned by her children. At least in the early years when they nurse full time and contact nap and bed-share with mothers. They are free to rough and tumble on their mothers’ bodies, pinch their skin to elicit an oww, blow raspberries on their tummies and just find a cozy spot to nestle into. I was 37 when mom was on her death bed and she was 76 years old. I still longed for those familiar sensations…to sniff her pheromonal scent, to lay on her arm and drift away to sleep…to just become a baby with her… But in those moments, it was her that needed mothering. Lullabies that I sing to my baby boy kept coming to my lips as I sat beside her on the few occasions I got to see her at the hospital. I wanted to comfort her and help her rest. She lay there day after day, uncomfortable, often times alone, visibly heartbroken at her state. She believed in her heart that she didn’t deserve this fate. She was taking care of herself for the last decade, her robust morning walks and clean eating. She led a spartan life in her last few years, still in service of her family, helping raise her grandchildren, seldom asking for anything for herself, to the point of hiding her worsening health till it reached a stage beyond repair. Oh mother! Oh Mothers! Could you not have asked for some love for yourself. Why did you not feel worthy of asking for help? Some care? You were pure love, mamma. Pure, unconditional love.