Mothers Day.

Hourglass of Worries

I whispered close to my mothers worn features

The marking of age danced before my eyes like wind shaping sand.

I leaned closer to her chest, wrapping my body around her.

Her body was a buoy saving me as I drifted out to sea.

Her hands were sandpaper worn smooth,

Caressing my hair, watching it flow between her short fingers

And slip away- an hourglass of brown and gold.

My tired limbs hug over the side of the rocking chair,

My legs were too long to be tucked between us.

A barricade of appendages now kept me from her womb.

I am afraid I’m not pretty.

There isn’t a garden more vibrant.

The murmur of her level voice warmed me,

A concoction of warm milk and honey.

She rocked forward in the chair.

Comforting me with motion,

She rocked back in the chair.

The aged chair now whined under

The strain of our weight.

I whispered it once again.

Trying to feed off her weak body,

Wondering how she still had strength to bring me relief.

The wisps of hair around her skin cascaded as avalanches of snow.

As I brought my face in, letting my nose unearth her tattered sleeve,

She transformed into the flowery scent that made my childhood bloom

Before my eyes. My belly grew as my childhood wilted away.

I am afraid I won’t have anything to show for my life.

She stopped her rocking to look at my stomach.

Tears drifted from the crow’s feet around her cerulean eyes.

A daughter is enough.