The role of the mother in literature is profound and strange. There is the desperate mother, like Cersei Lannister in Game of Thrones, whose redeeming quality is her doomed love of her children. There is the stepmother, evil and jealous, the cooing mother, all chubby-cheeks but destined to be left behind. There is Niobe, of Grecian lore, who was blessed by children only to have them taken away because of her pride. Then there is a woman of Biblical times, who looked back to her old life in the destroyed cities of Sodom and Gomorrah and was turned to a pillar of salt. She was known only as Lot's wife, and we forget that she had two children, daughters, that she left behind. We do not forget the sacred stories of Ruth and Naomi, nor the Haida story of the Mother Bear. The mother is meant to be the protector, the one who balances, nurtures, and provides. And yet, as we see in all of the above stories, through shades of nuance, through sadness, through personal pain, it cannot always be this way. Today, in tiny poetry: macropoetics, we saw many posts about mothers. We celebrate those whose mothers are close to them, like Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, whose children eventually save her. We consider, and hold close, those who can't be with their mothers on this day, those who have lose them to sadness, to mental illness, to what dreams come beyond this vale of tears. Through all of this, we celebrate the resilient woman who lives on. We celebrate the body of the woman, the substance of the poet, and the community that brings us all together.