Mother and daughter are too alike

Sometimes I feel my eyes gaze,

Almost naturally upon my mother’s face.

At the busy dinner table, where arms float with bowls of bread,

And strangers whisper their gossip loudly, 

I see her under the warm light like the Madonna.

Her curly hair wrapped tightly in a bun,

Holding back from being free, from being open.

My mother’s eyes catch mine,

Only in a passing gaze.

She laughs politely at jokes and insipid stories,

Quietly pushing her food around with a fork.

I call out to her, but she’s years away;

Nestled in a space where only my voice can’t be heard.

How can I love my mother,

But hate her too?

I want to go back to her childhood

To show her that she was loved.

I want to tell her to do more, to dream big.

I want to tell my mother that she should not become a mother.

What does it mean to be a mother?

Will I suffer the same fate?

I look at the lines around her mouth, 

And the creases in her eyes for answers.

It’s always the people who don’t want children,

Who have them first.

I hear her voice echo that terrible saying in my head

Every time I ponder the question.

I am a stranger yet a daughter,

There is no difference and the overlap is inconsequential.

I give her the bowl of warm baguette slices.

She mouths a thank you and passes it along.