I saw my daughter in my face. I saw that smile that curled up and the twinkle in her eyes. Those same gappy front teeth.
She is me.
I am her.
I dreamt of her years before she was here. I thought of her with dark hair and ivory skin, yet, blond wisps are the reality. Darling, soft, blond, messy hair.
Hair that reminds me of my own Mother. Those same blond wisps my Mother hated for me to touch. “I don’t like my hair played with,” she’d announce. And just like my mother, my daughter throws up her hand, pushing me away when I brush those extra long pieces out of her eyes.
I on the other hand would allow anyone to touch and caress my hair.
I see my daughter. I see my mother. I see me.
The sing songy nature of her play.
The language all her own. One only a mother can understand.
I had the same language. My mother smiles and tells me, “you told us stories just in that way.”
This daughter of mine who loves Mama’s milk, who curls up to me at night but can be furiously independent during the day. I was that to my own mother once upon a time. I was hers and she was mine. And now I’m grown. And my mother and I, we’re kinfolk. Both of us, Mothers, along different parts of this journey. Mothers watching their daughters grow into Mothers, watching their daughters grow… a journey unlike any other.
-playing along with WriteAlm’s November Prompts.