With their unique pen and their own sensitivity, artists present to us their vision of the world around us. This week, we give carte blanche to comedian Mariana Mazza.

Today is Mother’s Day. The day of the ladies who took a human out of their body. A human who incubated for nine months. The ladies who had a heartache. Vomited. Ate weird things. Became hormonal monsters. Gained a lot of weight. Lost some. Loved being someone’s special vessel, still unknown. Hated having their organs crushed by a bean sprout which will take up a lot of space. Those who had to stay lying down. All along.

It’s the celebration of the ladies who screamed.Torn.Shouted.Cryed.Blown.Cried.Loved.Loud.Too loud.

It’s the celebration of women who made a human.Who was created out of love.By desire.By passion.Sometimes by bad luck.Sometimes by mistake.Sometimes by obligation.Sometimes in atrocious conditions.Of poorly controlled love.

We celebrate the woman who agreed to keep within herself something that would become her whole. Her universe. Her reason for living. Her obsession. Her oxygen.

There are those who have been there for a few days. A few weeks. A few months. A few hours. They will have held him in their arms. Just a little. Afterwards, he will leave. He will go back to sleep. A long time.

Even if their status was ephemeral, they will remain so. Even if they never saw the miracle destroy their open and fragile body. Even if the miracle left too quickly. Even if everything.

We give flowers to those who have chosen to multiply. To separate from themselves. Who have accepted that things will change. They will never have to sleep. We celebrate a human who will never again be his own priority. It will be someone else who will occupy his thoughts. Always. For life.

It’s the celebration of those who were lucky enough to be able to change their social status. For some, it was easy. They called themselves “Mom” nine months after trying once. Bullseye.A shot.A bit hot, Barry White playing in the background. Phew bam. The next day, hello, I’m coming, mom. For others, it was longer. Months, years. An injection. Injections every week. Endless meetings. Recurring couple quarrels. An imminent separation. They prayed to the gentleman who lives in the clouds. Crying. Losing hope.And a miracle. When they let go, on vacation, in the shower. On the sofa. In the toilet of the dingy snack bar. A miracle.

There are mothers who will haunt their mothers. Who will pray to them. Cry for them. Regret them. Our mothers’ mothers.

And there are the others. Those who will never be able to be called mom. Little mom of love. Mom. Mommy. Mama. Those who will be eternally envious of the luck of others. Who will hit themselves on the head while repeating that their body is too weak to carry life. Who will cry in secret. Or no. Who will never live their dream. They will see him again. Always.

There are mothers who will regret it. They won’t want it anymore. They will give up. Abandon it. Quit the game. Never look back. Out of fear. Out of disgust. By illness.

Or vices. It will be visceral. Those vices too strong to turn back. Those who will leave him in front of a door. In the street. Elsewhere than with them. Those who will never have the tools to try. One very last time.

Today is the day of the year when we say I love you and thank you to all mothers.

And there are the other mothers. Those who have never given birth.

There are mothers who will not want to carry life. They will want to take care of the life carried by another. Without having to get it out of their guts.

Dog mothers. I hear the sighs. I don’t care. The mothers of cats. Of birds. Of domestic pigs. Of fish.

That won’t stop them from loving with their guts. Loving like a mother, without bearing the fruit of a desire.

To all of you.Adoptive mothers.Spiritual mothers.Divine consciences.To all godmothers.Aunts.Cousins.Sisters.Daughters.Guardians.Neighbors.Angels.Grandmothers.Step-in-laws mothers.Mothers.

Happy Mother’s Day. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

P.-S. : There are also fathers. But how can I put it… it’s not your day.