Every night before bed
My mother would tenderly brush my hair,
She read goodnight stories and
Tucked little wiggling bodies
Into soft linens atop wooden beds
When I was 5 years old I became a mirror
I played â€˜houseâ€™ with dolls
Tenderly brushing frayed hairs
Reading goodnight stories and tucking little plastic bodies snug into little wooden beds
Every day my family rumbled belonging around food and drink
When the clatter of dinner stilled
The grumbling of hungry bellies sated & calm
Empty plates sat with empty chairs before being piled high in the sink where they were left, soon forgotten
When I was 8 years old I became a reflection
I played house with little sisters
We had pretend meals with tiny little glass plates around tiny little plastic tables
We piled dishes high in the sink
Where they were left, soon forgotten
Every Saturday night before we were tucked away early I watched my mother put on make up, and her best flowing dress
Date night meant my parents made eyes at each-other all throughout supper
When I was 10 years old i became a wishing well I decided I wanted to be a mother, too
I laid awake arranging furniture in future mansions
I made long journal entries swollen with infatuation I imagined falling in loveâ€¦.And I fell sick, instead with longing that curdled inside me
Leaving a sour taste in my mouth
At Age 21 I became a mother.
It was everything I had imagined, it was everything I hadnâ€™t.
The juxtaposition of motherhood consumed me.
At age 26 I finally understood and I surrendered to motherhood with signed adoption papers.
I flashed through memories of the gift of my childhood: a wishing well, a reflection, a mirror, a child who was cared for the very core of it all,