What Kind of Place?

Dear Jack,

I have this thought, shared by my friend Summer, that a mother is a place.

A place that grew and sustained you for nine (ten) months.

I found myself laying on the floor next to you this evening. Your toy cars were driving all around. One of them found a space under my head. Three of them fit in the crook of my arm. One drove into my mouth. One tried to find a space in my ear, but had to back out and try under my chin instead.

A mother is a place.

Tonight I am a parking garage.

Love,
Mom