I hug my mother most in the kitchen.
She reaches up to wrap her arms
around me, and I lay my head
on her shoulder. We breathe
together, relax into one another.
The oak wood under our feet creaks
with each shift of weight. The kitchen is

warm like her. Though that dead plant sits
in the window, we are full of life.
My mother’s fake green grapes and strands of
ivy weave above our heads;
our own personal jungle.
The red-brown cabinets and
bright yellow lights
shine down around us as we sway,
rubbing each others’ backs with a soft hum.

We fit together: mother, daughter.
Since childhood I have not been afraid
to run to her soft speckled skin and be held
by her, even when I was tall
enough to do the holding myself.
We have the same nose,
same smile,
same droop to our right eye.
Same tendency to accidents
like knife cuts
or oven burns
or trips over nothing.
Who am I
but a part of her?

My sister pads into the kitchen
on tiptoes— a habit she could never break
since a child. I see her quiet eyes
flicker downward,
see her scoot herself away from
my mother’s arms
see her close into herself
instead. She stares at the dead plant.

If her skin were a costume, she would
tear it off and never wear it again.
Instead of my mother’s nose,
she thinks she sees
my father’s stubble.
Not my mother’s dimpled smile
reflected back, but my
father’s Adam’s apple.
When we tell her she is
beautiful, she fiddles with her men-sized shoes.
We cannot convince her to
touch us when she is afraid to touch
herself.

We fit together: mother, daughter, daughter.
We sit at the island counter, playing
MarioKart on the kitchen TV,
talking about nothing really,
but to my sister it is
everything.
Our mother laughs like bells.
Who are we
but a part of her?