Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Writing Prompt 2: Photo Album

My mother leans back
against the flimsy wood paneling
eyes half shut
My cousin’s son
swaddled tight
his breath sweet and milky
against the curve of her neck
She pats his back
in that firm cadence
of mothers whose hearts have broken
This is what could have been
Twenty-seven years too late
This is what will never be
between us
There is a poignant sadness in her face
rocking somebody else’s baby
Had it been me
would that crease between her brows
Would she be even more weary
from years of battling
the harsh blades of society’s tongues
Would she look upon me
with resentment
the golden years of her womanhood
on an awkward little girl-child
Give me
three years
to put my own daughter
in her arms
And then we shall see

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