I see a face in the mirror,
Her face, not mine.
How could that be my face
I was just 16, I was just 23, I was just 32…
When did time disappear?
When did that face in the mirror become hers not mine?
When did her face meld with mine?
When did we begin to look like one another?
It’s hard to write about Mother
For to write about her
is to write about the Mother in each of us…
The Mothers we were…
The Mothers we are…
The Mothers we have yet to become…
When we finally get it right.
To write about them is to write about us.
It’s terrifying to write about Mothers
For to write about them is to write
about the face in the mirror
The one we now see,
the her we were never going to see looking back
The face in the mirror we know so well
Though not at all…
That’s when we know we’re finally free
When the face in the mirror stares back
and we love it anyway.
With all it’s shadows, lines, and crevices
With all it’s learning, perception, significance.
For when we love that face…
The one that happened while we were busy raising children
Creating homes, and lives for others to step into
when they were ready…
And while we were busy teaching them to love each other
We magically grew up and learned to love ourselves.