8: RETURN

There were those whose cloaks were torn, tattered, in shreds and rags, hard-worn throughout the day. 

There were those whose spectacles had over time become so smudged and spotted that the children could no longer see through, but could see only their own reflections staring back from the inside. 

And there were those whose keys had led them along treacherous trails and into dark chasms and through brambles and shards and shadow, and who reached home broken, bleeding, alone.

Wherever among the mother’s gifts the children had wandered that day, her call brought them swiftly home. 

They were glad to lay aside their cloaks, their spectacles and their keys at the door of the mother’s house, and to recount for her and for the others all the adventures that had befallen them as they played the day long among their many gifts.

At last, their stories told, the children fell quiet, remembering. The day drew in, deeper; the children sighed, tired, nearly ready now for sleep. It had been a long day.

After a long silence a child’s voice rose from the hush, hesitant, querulous.

“But Mother,” it said, “you have given us all these gifts, and yet we have given you nothing.”

Together the children clamored: 

“Yes, yes, Mother, what can we give you? You have given us so much, and we have no gift for you!”

The mother spread her skirts and settled in and smiled, well-pleased.

“Oh yes,” she said, her voice low and tender, “you do. You have given me it already. You see, children, it is my joy and my delight to lay all these gifts before you. You give me the greatest gift in return when you honor my gifts to you. Do you see?” 

And the children, drowsy, nodded: 

Yes, yes, we see.