Today you speak to me in the annoyed tone and acrid stare of adolecence
plate full of half-eaten vegetables and disdain
"Starving children could live off that broccoli for a week!" I scold as you curtly empty the greenery into the trash and slam your bedroom door shut before I can say anything else. So many days pass this way between us. You, trying to avoid me, me trying to still be your mom
but I remember
tiny youth plump fingers and pigtails,
a voice small and squeaky still needing my voice to guide hers,
chilly hands that warmed inside mine
and arms that once liked to hug like no other.