One of the verbs of me
of embedded patterns,
hiding themselves in plain sight and
forgotten; woven between the subconscious and the links of dusty DNA –
Brushed off and ready for another round
my own mothering memories cocooned in nostalgia
These soft-edged replays
Of careful kindnesses and strained patience
Of steadfast believing-in-me with secret sacrifices
Of space-less snuggles and laugh-out-loud adventures
Now star myself
The actors morph
And now it is my own voice; but is it?
My own flaws; but are they?
My own laughter; but is it?
My own human attempt at love; but is it?
And I am suddenly grateful
That in my own rocky road to mastering motherhood
Where days stretch and failures amass
I can step, unashamedly
into the patterns of my own mother’s making
The good, the bad; but mostly the warm
And surprisingly the shoes fit
Just a few sizes too big