the face of my mother


i went to a house, neither pretty, nor plain
with a gentle fist, i knocked at the door
when it swung open, i softly asked the lady of the house
am i seeing the face of my mother?
no! screamed the woman who’d opened the door
then she promptly slammed it shut
i was stunned, for a moment, but went on my way
for there were other doors to knock on that day

along, on my journey, i went to another
again, neither pretty, nor plain
a bit louder, this time, i knocked on the door
expecting the same as i’d gotten before
then a peephole slid open and a woman glared
through eyes as blue as the sea
am i seeing the face of my mother? i asked
no! like a banshee, she screamed

still not discouraged, i knocked on them all
every door to be found
yet none would come forth to acknowledge my birth
no witness to attest to my arrival on earth
my heart broke in two…tattered and torn
it felt heavy within me; my spirit, forlorn

i began to run as fast as i could
to the house that i called my home
i ran through the door and back to my room
crying there, for hours, alone
i went to the basin some time later
to wash my tear stained face
when i looked in the mirror i was shocked to see
that the face of my mother stared back at me
red faced, eyes swollen with sorrow, i could not look away
for i knew then that blood did not make you kin
and that some mothers are never quite mothers, within
from that day, to this, i have always known
that you only find your truth in the place you call home

One thought on “the face of my mother

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