Tea and Sympathy

Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall; A mother's secret hope outlives them all.
-Oliver Wendell Holmes

After taking a long walk Saturday afternoon I had an ugly red blister on my foot, not on the sole but on the upper part uncommonly referred to as the 'dorsal.' I wore slippers all the afternoon and evening long, and for a good part of Sunday. The slippers seemed to irritate the problem but I never thought to walk barefoot.
When I glanced down I could see an angry welt and I mentioned it to my mother over the telephone yesterday as I made a cup of tea.
"Take off the slippers!" exclaimed Mater immediately.
It seemed that the injury needed exposure to air and so at her insistence I removed the shoes.
She tutted at me for my foolishness.
I made my tea slowly while standing on the cold kitchen floor, soaking up the warmth that flooded in the windows. I like strong black tea and I gave the teabag a very powerful squeeze before lifting it on the spoon and carrying it to the sink.
The teabag fell off the spoon and landed by my foot, narrowly missing the blister which would no doubt have been agitated since I also like my tea very hot.
Because I got a fright, my mother knew that something had very nearly happened. I told her that I nearly dropped the teabag onto my poor foot.
Even though I know my mother for years; even though I know of others' maters who behave erratically; even though I ought to be ready for anything that is said to me these days, I was not quite prepared for her wisdom:
"if you'd had your slippers on that wouldn't have happened. I always tell you not to go barefoot. Don't I always say it?"
I quite nearly dropped the entire cup of boiling tea in my consternation. I am awfully glad that she cares for me and I believe that she wants all things good for me, all of the time, sometimes contradicting her own self in her endeavours.
Such is a mother, and always will be.