I am Mother; I am Magic | Poetry

I am Mother; I am Magic

A tap on my chest rouses me from sleep and I am greeted with her face

Round and wet

Warm with fever

She climbs into bed next to me and I hug her close.

Her body contorts into the puzzle piece that fits into mine;

The one we've been working on since infancy

And here we remain until the fever breaks.

I long for relief

For her.

I take off my hat for play dates and movies

And put on the one I save

For such an occasion

As illness.

Our cuddles turn from a luxury

To a necessity

As we all know

Mom's touch can cure all ailments.

What pressure.

The holder of the magic

That turns illness to dust

And melts away

The pain.

In the morning I will look into the mirror

A dull character staring back

That could carry her groceries home

With the bags forming beneath her soul's windows

But she sees

A magician

Holding the secrets to health

And comfort.

Little old me.

To think that there are parts of me

That I try to kill

Bit by bit on my dreariest days

While she assumes it must have been me that perfectly placed the stars in their places.

Us mothers

Designing constellations for fun

Placing the grass perfectly beneath their bare feet

Holding close all of the elixirs for fear, pain, and sadness.

We are magic.

The curves of our bodies forming the puzzle piece boundary

That theirs will fit into

Well into maturity

Because everyone knows

Mom's touch can cure all ailments.

-Brittany Rosenmiller