I will never be too grown-up to be kissed and squeezed by my mother
For she will not take “no” for an answer
“You are a grown-up now, but in my eyes you are still my little girl”
She will usher me into her kitchen to taste her homemade
Because in food she puts her love.
When I was a teen, while Tracy Chapman was crying out of the loudspeakers,
My mother would listen and say “how is she doing these days?”
And worry about the well-being of my teen-idols.
Her sensitiveness is deceptive, for she is firm as a rock,
Her strength disguised by the soft curtains of her soul.
Once I was in her womb.
Curled up in its pink, soft protectiveness.
Now years and years later,
Looking at her porcelain, antiques and family photos
Her perfume bottles, that should have been used up years ago, but are still half full,
Her patchwork blankets and TV shows,
I feel a fear and sadness.
Knowing that one day she will be gone taking her womb with her.