Mother's Daughter
Taking my hair down at work, I stare at a face not entirely my own in the mirror above the sink. I see not only me, but I see my mother. The same piercing eyes that scrutinize every curl and curve, the same jet black hair that she made perfect every morning before work, the same routine I watched her do when I was a little girl, I now do myself. My mother would rather eat a can of beans if it meant she would know that someone in need would eat 3 full meals every day for a year. These things that at one time would devestate me are now things that I am most proud of. Swearing only a year ago that my worst nightmare would be to become her, even looking like her would break my heart... but I know better now.
Since I was little I always hated that we would move and get settled and then move again, always picking up and leaving to 'start over again' somewhere new. I never understood why, and at ten years old what else was I supposed to think other than she was just trying to disrupt everyone's social life. But I know what she was searching for. My mother, like me, was a dreamer. That place inside her head, where she would be utterly happy, where all her children could grow up and live happy lives, full of love and laughter, realistically of course in some way or another, she searched for it. All across the united states she brought us all, my sisters my brother and I. On her quest to find that special place, we moved so many times, and every spot had so much potential, but never quite fit the bill.
I watch the tears fall. I see my mother's eyes, her hair, her same smile attached to my face. I admit defeat, my mother's unconditional love and guidance has won me over, at last at seventeen years old it's finally taken hold of me. I cry now not because she's dying, or because she lives across the U.S. but rather because I am proud, finally, of where I come from and who. I know who I am, and no other label or description could suit me better. I am proud, because I am, and always will be my mother's daughter.
Since I was little I always hated that we would move and get settled and then move again, always picking up and leaving to 'start over again' somewhere new. I never understood why, and at ten years old what else was I supposed to think other than she was just trying to disrupt everyone's social life. But I know what she was searching for. My mother, like me, was a dreamer. That place inside her head, where she would be utterly happy, where all her children could grow up and live happy lives, full of love and laughter, realistically of course in some way or another, she searched for it. All across the united states she brought us all, my sisters my brother and I. On her quest to find that special place, we moved so many times, and every spot had so much potential, but never quite fit the bill.
I watch the tears fall. I see my mother's eyes, her hair, her same smile attached to my face. I admit defeat, my mother's unconditional love and guidance has won me over, at last at seventeen years old it's finally taken hold of me. I cry now not because she's dying, or because she lives across the U.S. but rather because I am proud, finally, of where I come from and who. I know who I am, and no other label or description could suit me better. I am proud, because I am, and always will be my mother's daughter.