Expectant before every movement of the being that grows in the entrails or tirelessly in the days of the school or the good and bad moments, the mother is this cardinal point of the compass that will always be (or not), this pole from which the others line up, and where one always returns.

These days in which the gifts and cards try to sum so many hours of care up, they return to the center of the attention, like called for a holiday they never asked for. Nevertheless, more than in the details of occasion, in the breasts of many there is the wish of a call or the simple certainty of knowing that his people is fine, even if the distance is so big that prevents the hug.

Right now many of them dress themselves of fairies or magicians to entertain the child of their efforts, or leave aside the chores to investigate the causes of the frown...

After every attempt, every victory or every defeat there they are, constant, tireless; sure that in every morning there will also be little their care pushing the step of the days. That's why there is nothing to say in their honor. Any word is vain, except one: thank you.

Translated by BA in English Language, Manuel Barrera Téllez

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