I LOOK LIKE MY MOTHER
From the crinkles between our cheeks and brow
To the dimple visible only from the right side portrait
I hated that the fire wicking from vein to artery
Was smothered by dishes, diapers, and to-do’s into burning embers
I hated the routine dictated by school days and nights and tip-toes around full moon blues
She didn’t deserve to be buried under the backyard soil of life.
But as my steps led me farther and further away to lands she wouldn’t know
When shouted, electric, traumatizing, and beautiful trials invaded my being
As my soul was picked apart
As my mind trembled under ultimatums
I noticed that my weathered hands . . .
looked like hers
Generous hands that overflowed Tupperwares of food to children away from their families
Silent creativity bringing people to their knees in sobbing reflection
Quiet, patient kindness in the eye of fiery tornadoes of emotion and thunder
The joy in the everyday, little things that truly bring
exclamations of bursting happiness —
I painfully, and gratefully, realized . . .
how honoured I was
I looked like my mother
