The hobbit sat at his writing desk, thinking. He did not often have these moments of “literary creativity” as he called it, but when he did, what flowed out onto the paper was always beautiful.
He stared out the window of his hobbit-hole. It always frustrated him to no end when he couldn’t think of the right words to say. He watched as the flowers waved gently in the breeze while bees buzzed around them, collecting nectar. The hobbit suddenly smiled. He had his words.
He dipped his quill pen into the inkwell. He gently brushed his pen against the side to remove any excess ink and wrote one word at the top of the page.
Mum. The hobbit smiled sadly and wiped a tear from his eye.
I don’t know why I was yours
But I was
I never deserved your goodness
But I got it anyway
You soothed me when I was scared
You bandaged my scraped knees
You hugged and kissed me when I was feeling low
I have never seen a better healer
You fed us, clothed us, raised us, loved us
I love you, Mum
Your son,
Sam