Becoming my Mother

I put on shoes meant for herAnd carry purses filled with child toys

Busy at making and cleaning.

I am not my mother

But if I wear her raisin lipstick, maybe.

What is this strange thing daughters do? 

As I am growing into womanhood 

I must define myself away 

from mother, 

I must push and change the parts they say are “just like her.”

She is harsh, unbending, unfair

I am not my mother.

But then I become “mother”

The change reaching into my cells

And soul

Here lies the fear:

What if I am not like mother?

She is strong, wise, enduring 

I am not my mother.

There is a picture of her 

Tucked away by her mother 

And as I stare I can’t decide

If I’m looking at my mother

Or myself.

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