A mother feels big and fat and squishy, when she doesn’t feel small, warm, and sharp around the knees and elbows. She feels softer than not.
The feel of her hands is rough like a cat’s tongue and gentle and cruel, all depending, with sharpish nails and broad, fleshy palms.
Sometimes a mother’s hair feels like a big, soft puff, while at others it feels heavy, like silk.
A mother’s thighs feel smooth and hard and densely doughy.
Her middle feels like home, or desire, or a nice place to rest your head. Her breasts feel everything from over-used to eager for more.
Sometimes a mother feels like an extension, while at others she feels like a (hostile) invasion.
A mother feels happy and sad and scared and powerful and at times strangely indifferent. She slowly closes her tigerlily eyes and only the good Lord knows how she feels then.
A mother feels familiar, and foreign, and much and exactly unlike everyone we meet.
Now you know how a mother feels.