Mother.
When I look at you, I see
the woman I want to be
in twenty years.
You worry
about the wrinkles
that form constellations
across the freckles on your skin.
A natural reaction
to what society brands
as aging.

Mother.
When I look at you,
I see that those lines tell stories.
They speak to all the times
you laughed so hard
you cried.
Times you smiled so big,
so bright,
so proud,
your cheeks began to throb
to the beat
of my graduation march.

Mother,
when I look at you,
I see no age.
I see a superhero
flying her faithful SUV
from one side of town
to the next.
Whisking kids from practice,
and concerts,
and recitals.
All paid for with the money
from the job
that gets you up before the sun.
Money that means nothing to you
compared to the happiness
of your children.

Mother.
When I look at you,
I see honey golden eyes
just like mine.
Eyes I remembered
tired
and weary
after a long day
of making ends meet -
being a mother
and a father.
A woman too selfless to rest
until dinner was on the table.

Mother.
When I look at you
I see an airy frame,
but you’re strong --
so strong.
The greatest life lessons
I’ve learned from you
came in your darkest times
when you refused
to let the world break you down.
Life gave you lemons
and you’d be ******
if you were going to leave
the dinner table
before you finished drinking
all that lemonade.

Mother.
When I look at you,
I feel so much pride.
You’ve accomplished so much.
You’re Wonder Woman.
I feel the comfort,
like your soft embrace,
in knowing
where I come from…
and where I’m going.

Mother.
When I look at you,
I pray
someday I can be half
the mother you are
so my children can be
as lucky as me.

Mother.
When I look at you,
I see your mother too.
The generations of mothers
before you
whose love
and strength
and wisdom
were weaved together
to form
the beautiful woman you are today.