As much as I deny it,
I am the spitting image of my mother.
Not in a sense where a stranger could
look at her from a distance and then
spit nonchalantly into the wind and be
smacked in the face by the outline of
my image, but
in the sense that when I lean over to
click my pen against my teeth and when I
rip apart the split ends of my hair that are already
dead,
I am my mothers daughter and it is something
I cannot outrun.
She talks to loudly in rooms where people
don’t care that her husband of 23 years is a wonderful father and that
her daughter is so much taller than her and she uses her to
retrieve the fancy plates from the top
of the shelf.
I still find myself anxious to scream out how fond you are
of whatever subject my friends have choosen to talk about.
No one asked and
no one cares, but I
find the deep setted desire to spill the beans about every little detail about us, down to the
hair I find sticking to my bathroom mirror after you have already left.
I am my mothers daughter when I
sit impatiently for an appointment,
when I bake cookies for the new neighbours and when
I cry because I've been left alone after trying so hard
to be kind to absolutely everyone.