THIS is Mothers’ Day. Each of us will find his way into his own memory field to-day and, wandering in and out along the pathway of the past, he will gather forget-me-nots and heartsease for a bouquet. “What an armful of flowers, with nectar sweet as that in the cups of rose-buds and with fragrance outmatching Arabic gardens! You may go where you like along these roads of memory, into the orchard, or the meadow, or the woodland; but let me go straight to my mother, whose long absence makes the world a lonesome place for me after all these years. I want to hear her speak my name once more. I want to feel, once more, the touch of her caress.
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