Mother

I know your mother as well as you know mine. I do not believe your mother is good or kindhearted, and neither do you mine. You still call her “good,” as I still call yours. We have never met. We have never met.

Somehow, I know exactly whatever she’s like, it doesn’t matter. We both yearn for a comfort she never affords. Whether it be missing her or something more. Hold hands as if we understand. We still call her “good.”

I know your mother should be capable of love, I don’t know if she does. Neither do you mine.

Her weathered hands would feel the same in mine as they would in yours, soft as you massage the pleats, and maybe they never aged a day, maybe they aged fair more than they should.

Whoever she is, she cried the same tears as the river had water, she breathed the same air as the rest of the world, while she never spoke the same tongue, her words were just as soothing and still, and her heart and body crafted with the same principles, if we believe.

She had the same dimples as mine, she had the same laugh, something about her was yours and she was sacred. I know your mother as well as you know mine.