Levels of hospitably. My father’s arms are often closed like a bodyguard, cold and focused. And me, my arms. They’re far too young to understand the kindness and understanding it takes to say, “Stay.” David’s arms are like clouds always looking glum and unwelcoming.
       But my mother's arms, my mother's arms, like a fast food restaurant, are always open. The kettle always whistling and the oven chiming because she is ready for anything. My mother’s arms are welcoming, hospitable to all. Some people say my mother’s house is like sunshine, always brightening up their day. They provide happiness for the hopeful a hundred times over.