my mother is my
mountain, my
best of all-
she's my
mum.
While Watching
They were watching-
a mother, her daughter-
to see if he-
a skater, a boarder-
would make the jump;
scale the slopes and
slabs of concrete
one long Autumn afternoon.
I don't remember if
he did, or if he didn't-
though he probably did-
but what remained
was the oft-forgotten
miracle
of how much daughters
did look like their mothers
in anguish, in anticipation
in quiet thoughtfulness
while watching the world
go by.
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Musings on the oddities of genetics and affection.