Mom

The tendrils 

of my mother's voice

curl through the distance 

to cup me 

in the palms of her hands

where she lets the little pool

of tears collect

so I can see my reflection --

I gaze at a woman, 

confusedly not a child, 

joyfully becoming myself 

and my mother's daughter,

trying to soak up the 

wisdom of the ages 

and revel in the knowing

of an unrivaled, unconditional love.

My mother slowly un-cups the mirror,

leaving room to collect my joys -- 

she twirls these around her fingers,

creating bands of summer purples 

and deep Monet reds,

weaving a tapestry of painted dreams 

that connect the baby she bore

to the woman she cradles

with the soothing sounds of, 

"I love you."