A Mother's labor of Love

By Stuart Platt
As I peered up from the kitchen table, I saw her. There she stood with the sun shining through the small kitchen window. On her face was simple determination; her lower lip rolled over her teeth as if it were a wave breaking over the top before it crashes against the sand. Her hands move swiftly over the dishes as a small cascade of water pours over them. Finally, the mountain of dishes is finished. She leans over and wipes the sink with a small sense of triumph and accomplishment.  As she closes the door to the dishwasher, she inspects her work. Now she turns to yet another task at hand. But as I see her walk away, do I hear a moan of despair? Does a scowl of endless drudgery come across her face? No, only a sense of responsibility and love for those for which she toils.