The Ideal Homemaker

Once upon a time, there was a mother whose heart had grown on the outside of her body. Every little breeze of her children’s joy made it tremble and their smallest woes caused it to twist and thud with pain.
All day long her arms were filled with children, like sweet bouquets. She built them a house entirely out of flowers and every single morning, she made cake.
Many years of mornings and small birds passed. At last, she had only the memory of children’s voices, like bright scattered candies, and finally, enormous, mindless Death came and ate her up.
Her children waved goodbye as the flower house fell down, but most of them remembered it for quite a long time.