The Mother Made of Mosaic

I want you to close your eyes for a moment.
Picture mosaic tiles —
in every shade of blue.
Soft cerulean. Deep navy. Hints of sky and sea.
All broken, all different.
Light and dark, side by side.

Now imagine building a mother from those tiles.
She’s tired —
on her knees —
cradling her baby close.

She’s fragile.
She’s breathtaking.
She’s made of sorrow and strength,
held together in a way that almost doesn’t make sense.

But look closer…

What’s holding her together?
What keeps all those tiny pieces from falling apart?

The grout.
The in-between.
The part no one pays attention to.

That’s her village.
The hands that check in.
The arms that hold her when she’s too tired to stand.
The voices that speak truth when the sadness tries to steal her name.

Without that —
without the grout —
she wouldn’t hold.

And yet…
because of it,
she becomes art.

A living mosaic.
A mother made of grief and beauty,
of breaking and belonging.

And in the quiet moments —
when the light hits just right —
she glows.