My Mother

Her face is a clock I know by heart, laugh lines like sunbeams, worry wrinkles like pencil marks from all the times she erased my fears. Her eyes are forget-me-nots, blooming blue even on cloudy days. Her voice is summertime, warm as sidewalk chalk, sweet as lemonade. Her smile? That’s how love feels; a breeze that sneaks in to straighten my tangled thoughts. Being with her is like sitting cross-legged by the fireplace, listening to stories pop like corn kernels. Her hugs are quilts made from old T-shirts and bedtime songs, stitched tight enough to hold my secrets. Being with her is coming home to cookies shaped like lopsided hearts, to kitchen counters dusted in flour where she writes I love you with one finger. Our home smells like vanilla and laundry soap, like no matter how far I wander, this is where the map circles back. She’s my North Star, sure, but also my flashlight when I’m scared, steady beam, no judgment, lighting the path but letting me walk it. Even on my darkest nights, she’s the glow-in-the-dark sticker on my childhood ceiling, soft, familiar, always there. In her, I see the whole universe, not some fancy painting, but a well-loved storybook with dog-eared pages and underlines that say This part? This matters. My mom’s face, my mom’s heart: not perfect, but perfectly mine.