The comedy of maternal love is that its seismic intensity is expressed, most of the time, in totally mundane drudgery

 Elizabeth Bruenig for The Atlantic, here:

... My mother used to pick me up from day care in paisley dresses or broomstick skirts with slouchy boots, hair hot-rolled and blown out, with the lived-in scent of faded perfume: full glam for an eight-hour workday with a 45-minute commute on either end and then a second shift at home, cooking any number of demanding meals—fried chicken, smothered pork chops, breakfast for dinner with biscuits and gravy—and then helping me and my brother with our homework and loading up the dishwasher, all before she took her makeup off. I used to sit beside her and talk with her while she took her evening bath, watching while she rinsed her mascara off and finally breathed. ...

Happy Mother's Day

The carnation does not drop its petals, but hugs them to its heart as it dies, and so, too, mothers hug their children to their hearts, their mother love never dying.

-- Anna Jarvis

The Lily of the Valley has bloomed here in Michigan for Mother's Day

Its fragrance fills the air as I write this, and reminds me of my mother, who grew it prolifically on the west northwest side of our old house in Wisconsin.

"For her the lilies hang their heads, and die".

-- Alexander Pope (1688-1744)