Circle time

I arrive at Group each morning, notebook in hand, pen at the ready.

At first, the women were overly conscious of me.

When the therapist asked a question, they looked at me, not her, when they answered. Several glanced frequently at my notebook, trying to decipher its abbreviated scribblings.

Now they don't notice me so much. I am the silent figure on a chair outside the circle. Only the occasional flip of my notebook paper gives me away.

I listen to the secrets that dribble out each morning, secrets that involve absent mothers, abusive mothers, unknown mothers.

And I am struck -- again and again -- by the realization that no matter what these women suffered at the hands of their mothers, they still love and miss them all these years later. They've looked everywhere for that soft maternal touch -- in pain pill bottles, liquor cabinets and crack houses.

Still, it eludes them.

What I see and hear each morning further convinces me that there is no love more resilient than that of a child for her mother. Some days, it breaks my heart. Other days, I am overwhelmed and frightened by their desperate need...

... because it reminds me of the revered place I've been allotted in each of my own children's hearts.

And I pray that I never disappoint them.