it's about my mother.
in a way, it always has been.
about her smile on my face,
her face on my face,
my face on hers. it fades with age.
i'm told i laugh the way she laughs,
but it's not true.
her laugh is like the clouds, clearing after rain
and mine is like the sun.
her eyes don't crinkle anymore.
she doesn't open her mouth and yell about being happy.
but i'm not sure she used to.
i can see my face- her face- in old photos
surrounded by friends, stolen moments
happy to be imprisoned in ink.
so now i don't have my picture taken.
and neither does she, even though she says i should,
that i'm pretty and i should remember it
even though i won't.
all i can think about is her.
isn't she pretty? what changed her mind? is my face good enough?
am i good enough?
she runs her long fingers through my hair.
i remember pressing our palms together,
laughing about my small hands.
they're not small anymore- no more reason to laugh.
i can never stop looking through her eyes.
my eyes.