"My little angel." Came the soft voice that could mellow a rigid heart and wax mountains to dust.
Jeff glowed and seemed to walk on air as the sound of his mother's voice resounded in his eardrum. The feeling was taut with affection, and the warmth was like a boiling oil. He wouldn't mind burning in it. Too many words corroded his throat, but his lips glued to each other and would not spill them. It was as though he was in an ocean, drowning slowly but not wanting to be saved or rescued. Every bone, muscles, and cells that made up his body knew the language and wanted to have a drink from its cup.
With all humility and gentleness, he rested his cheek on her hair, letting the familiar smell of her body slip through his nostril. Time and seasons have passed. Yet time and seasons have brought them together. How long since he last held his mother like this?
