I think of the mothers who have gone before me who faced war and poverty and persecution and remained calm and steady for their children. I think of them cooking and comforting, their hands -- their bodies -- busy -- making a life, the worry only showing in their eyes and in their minds. I think of my ancestors -- immigrants -- leaving a world they knew for one they didn’t and how I cannot comprehend their courage. I think of the women on the homefront -- the frontier -- the bread line --  the back of the bus. We see them through history’s filter, vessels of stoic strength and bountiful hope, celebrated by the poets and the painters. How could we think  that was true? For now I know the uncertainty, the fear, that must have ravaged them. because it is what   I feel. How, I want to know. How did they face it? How does a mother hold her child like nothing’s wrong when everything is? ...