Opinion

I saw a mother lug two young children onto a plane, one in each arm, like carry-on bags.

She smiled silently but spoke with her eyes, apologizing for what she thought we thought was bound to disrupt our trip.

It wasn’t necessary. We all flew across America in peace. Restful. For everyone but that mom.

There is no rest for mom.

My mother lives only in pictures, now, and in the memories of those who will miss her forever. But I see something of her in all kinds of mothers, in all kinds of circumstances. In my wife. My daughter-in-law. In strangers at airports and grocery stores.

I saw a mother walking a dog and pushing a stroller at the same time. All while talking – hands free – of brussels sprouts.

I saw a mother with a diamond ring as big as a peanut rush her brood past the candy aisle in the supermarket. I saw a mother with no ring at all rush her little boy past the same temptations.

I saw a mother stop in the middle of a sentence on a video call to wave goodbye to a teenage driver. She shivered a little at the thought.

“I still can’t get used to it,” she said.

There is no rest for mom.

I saw mothers at churches and synagogues and mosques, and I saw a common faith in their children. I saw mothers in libraries and gardens and parks, and saw the same thing there.

I saw mothers deliver food and groceries as second jobs. I saw them at work at the gas station where I fill up. I saw them in lab coats and executive suites.

I saw, in the news, a mother shot dead in front of a child. A child who will know their mom only from pictures, or news clips, or the transcripts of trials.

I heard mothers wail for lost children in front of crime scene tape. I heard them scream at God, and the police, and anyone who would hear.

I saw mothers fret about money, and appearance, and appearances. I saw them worry about whether they worry too much, or not enough, or about the right things.

I heard mothers worry about screen time and test scores and proper diction. I heard mothers who could not sleep at night because they were told to pay money they did not have to extortionists if they hoped to keep their child safe in a barbaric prison.

I saw mothers cry. Because of distance, or illness or because the rehab didn’t work. Again.

There is no beginning or end to worry about the ones you love.

I saw mothers push their children to read and to think, to welcome the world and appreciate the differences of their friends as much as the common bonds.

I saw mothers who made mistakes and never forgave themselves. I saw mothers who made mistakes and tried to do better. I saw mothers who blamed themselves for things that were not their fault. Because you cannot protect anyone, even a child, from all the dangers of a world.

I saw mothers who measured themselves against their own moms, and always found themselves lacking. I saw mothers who considered it their greatest achievement to raise their children in a different way. Their greatest achievement other than their children, that is.

I met a mother who showed me a picture of her mom, who lives in another country and is afraid to fly. Or afraid, now, to fly here. I met another mother who left my state to protect a child who was “different.”

I saw mothers love their children no matter what. I saw that up close, and often.

I look at that picture of my mom on days such as this. I do miss her. It is a comfort, though, to look around and see a world so full of mothers.

It is their day. They are our gift.

John Archibald is a two-time Pulitzer winner.