Reflections: My mother's daughter

Reflections, I have two: one is rasin

and the other is honey. One, has a prominent,

but straight nose. The other has a flat, wide one.

They both have broad backs and paws for hands

like me. They are mine.

Of course, the obvious is when they open their mouths.

“Mommy, I got this.”

“Ma, I told you. Nobody would listen.”

Then there is me. I feel my mouth moving,

but who I hear is her telling my children

lessons they tune out, fears I have for them,

things I'm certain they'll forget until they startle me,

spouting off something I said years before.

I see her. I see her most when I'm at odd with them.

I am her,young and unsure not old enough to direct

my own path; older, but not wise to remember I can't

direct theirs.

I forget the truth about mother and daughters:

We are tangled vines. We are seasoned by hurts and wrongs.

We grow outwards until we don't, until we are mothers

seeking roots we once threatened to sever.

I am my mother's daughter.

When I look at them, I see me.

When I hurt or feel loss, when I am

disconnected, I listen for her. I reach for her.

I am her, my mother's daughter.

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