A Story.

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,

do please,

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,

he spoke:

"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.

Words.

The story of life is made up of them.

Oh that life would always be rescued with such sweet ones.

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Five Minute Friday:

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