When I was younger, she saw me with gleaming eyes. She folded me up into blankets and smiled over me as my love grew like my arms and legs, it sprouting me taller. I impersonated her in my speech, followed the pathways she paved, and ran myself into lands of the most glorious fantasy. She had a slight wavering sense to her love sometimes and with newly elongated feet I’d stomp on the ground and shout at her until she would listen. When she did she was an eagle, swooping up an escaped chick into her arms. Caring and vicious. My mother was a thunderstorm, in descript , she was the tall leaning tower of pisa, reaching out wobbly with a hand, she was the quiet wave in the ocean and the loud bellowing one, slightly shaken herself by her own noise. She was strong and gentle like the whispering wind which tangles my hair. She was always there.
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