Mom

She would brush through my blond strands,
Gently tugging at the knots.
Tying in a ribbon with her hands
A bow with pink stripes or polka dots.
We were her two porcelain dolls
Except we would whine and scream.
She scooped us up after our falls,
And would scrub us until we’d gleam.
The master of all the roads,
The conductor of our train.
She sweetly scented laundry loads,
And magically removed each stain.
I’d fidget in my kitchen chair,
Though my plate was never too green.
She sliced up each apple and pear,
Even when we were in our teens.
I’d yell and slam my door to anger her.
Sobbing, I’d heave myself onto my bed.
She’d slowly climb in my bed, too,
And lean her ear against my head.
Even now when warm sweet tears
Glide from my eyes to my lips,
I call her so her voice can grace my ears,
She still mends my cuts from my falls and trips.