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They don’t hold hands, swaying back and forth in an unbroken circle to summon ancient powers of parenthood.
Mothers hold other, tiny hands in the grocery store.
Mostly to keep those same hands from grabbing large, powdery bags of flour and dumping them on the floor.
They walk beside tricycles as plastic wheels rumble across pavement.
They wipe their own eyes watching the same tricyclist, now grown up, walk across the stage at graduation or down the aisle.
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