Momma
This must be what Momma felt
When she held me in her arms
For the very first time.
I was there.
I was tangible.
I was hers.
I was her.
This must be what Momma feels
When she looks into my eyes
And sees her whole world staring back at her.
I am her creation.
I am her daughter.
I am her flesh and blood.
This is really how Momma feels
When I accomplish the smallest task
Or a high hurdle is hurdled.
She is prouder of me than I am of me.
She is overwhelmed with joy for me.
She is crying triumphant tears with me.
Is this really how Momma feels
As she observes me grow and grow
Into who she’d hope I’d be.
I am everything she hoped I’d be, I hope.
I am her everything, I hope.
I am her reflection, I know.
Now I know what Momma feels
As I morph into her role
And understand that what I am to her
Is what my artistry is to me.
I learn from Momma.
I respect Momma.
I am Momma.
I love Momma.