When I was little, my mother Mira was the person I ran to for comfort. Her small frame had become rounded over the years, and I would sink into her soft body whenever I was upset. She would rock me back and forth, stroke my hair, and 'shhh' me rhythmically if I was crying. Once I was an adult, she could still be counted on for healing words or a look of such deep empathy that any hurt would lighten instantly. It never occurred to me that she was carrying her own burden of pain, because her capacity for comfort was matched by her one for joy.
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