Reluctantly, the Mother
I routinely call her. She routinely answers.
Most times, I don’t remember dialing her number.
It’s so routine. So familiar.
Her voice — sad, bitter, lonely, coughing up crankiness
and unapologetically unraveling any silver linings still attached to her dark cloud of complaints.
I race to extract word knives she routinely plunges deep into the heart of the matter
before it’s too late.
Most times, I fail miserably.
Then we begin again
the mother-daughter dysfunctional dance.
We’re threaded together with DNA
and I know that
sooner or later
we’ll both become the other
you the daughter
and I reluctantly, the Mother.
This poem is in response to Tree Langdon’s prompt to write a poem about Routines and Change.