Once upon a time
there was a woman,
a mother of three.
She was harried and hurried
and a tad bit grumpy;
it seemed a definite mood.
The weather had turned hot,
the seat belts were twisted and jammed,
and the little children three
were crammed in the back of the car,
hot as she.
The strain of the episodes,
the leaning and clasping,
the grumbling and fumbling,
it made it seem as if those seat belts
in those unyielding, lumbering car seats
made her a bear in a very bad way.
It was after the fourth stop,
when the temperature on the outside
swelled to over 100 degrees F,
that the temperature of the mother
seemed to soar higher.
"Quickly, now, children,
help yourselves and give your poor mother a break.
Help each other,
and let's exit this sweltering place."
As she fumbled and bumbled
and spilled out of the car,
the middle child,
a son of quiet countenance,
placed his hand into hers
and peering up into her hot, reddened face,
"I like holding your hand, mommy;
I'd like to hold it all the time."
The sunshine shone from his little eyes
and washed all the strain, drain, and pain from the mothers.
The story of life is made up of them.
Oh that life would always be rescued with such sweet ones.