Mother is the head of the house,
even though I can’t see her
everyday like others can. She is
still a hero, even though I only got
two years.

I see my mom in my dad’s smiles
as he recalls days past with her,
dancing in an old 80’s lounge
And swaying like clothes on a clothesline.                           
According to my dad, her smile
Could pause the music noise in the tavern and replace it with static, maybe just for a second, but she stopped that music.
I wish I could have been there
and seen/heard that. 

Teachers and friends all ask
what happened to her.
“Why don’t you have a mom?” What happened to your mom?  
Then quickly apologize for bringing it up,
as if I was reliving the moment I learned she was gone and I was about to cry.
She died when I was two and a half.

On those days when they ask and I have no answer, I wonder how life with a mom
would have been different.

Maybe she would teach me to
paint my nails, and curl my hair,
Or get me ready for my concerts.
I might wear dresses and skirts, and
Be a little more feminine in my actions.

I try to keep my head up, for
I am her smile now, and I am
Her hands, crafting as she once
Had done for so many others.
I am now my dad’s keeper,
And his right hand in all that he does.
I am her spirit, a fragment of her soul,
and her looks, more in face than body.
I am her temper, so much like crashing
waves of anger at injustice and cruelty.
I am the fire of her love for any and
all god made creatures, especially dogs.

Above all else, I am the one she
Left behind to pass on love,
Patience, and acceptance, as she
Once had for so many others.
Every day, my family talks so happily
About her, and who she was,
That i can only hope to be her.

The day I am my mother, I will
Have surpassed the grief that I
Pushed so far back
At such a young age,
Because on that day, I will be
Whole.