My mother was born and raised in Sri Lanka, the oldest of 12 children.
Her mother Iris spent most days toiling in their kitchen. The children would watch her on her coconut grinding stool as she would hand shave fresh coconut retrieved from a tree in their own yard. She made miracles happen every day to feed every one. With more mouths in that house than fingers to count them, there always remained an open seat at her table.
This seat was reserved for visitors, whether invited or unexpected. A stranger walking by, a vagabond or beggar, all that needed the love and sustenance a little more than we did that day.