02. Only mystery makes us live
I remember my mother in the morning, when I was a child. Standing by the window, the rising sun behind her. She wore a small smile on her lips as she breathed in the steam rising slowly from the cup of coffee cradled in her hands. I would ask her for a taste of it, every morning that I found her there.
Every morning I asked her, she lowered her head and gave me what I asked for. She drank her coffee with only a trace of milk, and I found it too bitter. Every morning, it was too bitter, until one day, when I was older, and I finally understood that bitterness. By then, my mother was gone.
Today is a day that we honor all mothers, the living and the dead. Mine and yours. They gave us life, and they give up their lives for us, if the need should someday come. For that, we owe them everything.
I look upon this day forever with love and sorrow. What I have done, I will always have done, and I can only say that I am sorry.
Every morning I asked her, she lowered her head and gave me what I asked for. She drank her coffee with only a trace of milk, and I found it too bitter. Every morning, it was too bitter, until one day, when I was older, and I finally understood that bitterness. By then, my mother was gone.
Today is a day that we honor all mothers, the living and the dead. Mine and yours. They gave us life, and they give up their lives for us, if the need should someday come. For that, we owe them everything.
I look upon this day forever with love and sorrow. What I have done, I will always have done, and I can only say that I am sorry.