My mother is rich.

Rich in love, wisdom, generous.

With strong hands she bore a weight that shouldn’t be born alone.

Shouldered the burden of rearing a child on her own.

I love my mother,

We look like twins.

Spitting image or so I’m told

But I cannot be my mother.

She is cold.

Merciless in her wit, she tears down what aught to be built up.

I fear being a mother.

That the traits she’s developed, could be in me causes me to fear

But they that these things could also find a home in my babies?

I mourn already.

I weep that my daughter,

Looking up to me might find no model for how to love her spouse

Only traits to exsponge from her character.

We’ve never shared the warmness of familiarity.

Perhaps her burdens sealed that part off to both of us.

I have only a smattering of warm memories.

Minimal when compared with others.

Precious gems from a woman I love but cannot imitate.