For Mothers (and Daughters)

I'm nineteen years old and I still sit in my mother's lap.

Despite her compliants of me smushing her, I will curl up in a ball

in a desperate attempt to feel small again.

Before I made all of the mistakes I wish I hadn't, when I found myself impatiently waiting to grow up. 

Why don't we ever listen?

And as many times as I have not listened to my mother, I do not

reduce her lessons down to the size she is becoming. For they are

bigger and more important than I will ever be. 

She reminds me of

a loon on a lake, a deer standing still

in a forest, a waterfall

falling, even when nobody is watching. 

A sense of calm, constistence, persistance. 

Even if you can't see her or hear her love, it's always there.

As you grow up, you always hear 

"Oh God, I'm turning into my mother"

as if transforming into someone strong enough to 

raise you

is a bad thing.