i wish i knew my mother.
for a long time i thought that maybe
if i spend more time with her
i’d understand her more
but i don’t.
i wish i knew my mother when she was young.
did it seem like the universe was her playground
at seven, wide-eyed, hopeful, and innocent?
i wish i witnessed my mother’s elementary days.
did everything feel like an adventurous treasure hunt
at ten, whimsical, creative, smelling like the sun?
i wish i had seen my mother go through puberty.
did the sky crumble above her in the blink of an eye
at fourteen, rebellious, back aching from periods?
i wish i knew what my mother was like at my age.
did the world shake and throw her around to shape her
at nineteen, missing home and adulting?
i wish i knew my mother at twenty-six,
i wish i knew the woman sitting in front of me.
because maybe if i did, i would understand her.
maybe if i was her best friend,
i would laugh at her jokes
instead of rolling my eyes at her.
i would be there for her,
be the one to carry her back up
after a toxic breakup.
we would grab a meal, and laugh
about how my meal has no chili sauce
while her meal swims in redness.
we would catch a movie, and gush
about how cute hugh jackman looks
and wait, who’s this new leo guy?
we would have brunches and day-outs
and reunions and debriefing periods
and cheesy emotional moments
and we’d love them all.
i wish i was my mother’s best friend.
i wish i was the shoulder for her to cry on,
the hand to hold on to as she’s about to fall,
the eyes that helped her see in the dark,
the heart that helped her surf through life.
i wish i was my mother’s best friend, because
daughters and their best friends become
mothers without best friends, but with
daughters that become mothers
that become broken mirrors
of their daughters.