She sat on her couch, cradled her three-year-old in her arms, and stroked his hair and cheek.  She only glanced at me occasionally as she explained his limited mobility and other significant needs.  She couldn’t stop looking at her child.  I found myself almost whispering as we continued to talk.  I didn’t want to do anything to disturb the feeling in the room.  It was so beautiful and tender.  Pure love. 

I doubt this mother remembers me.  I was one of many, many therapists that have cycled through her life.  But every time I pass her street, I remember her, her child and that sacred moment that I was allowed to witness.