Mother Mirror

You look just like your mom!
As a girl they said this to me
at the grocery store, at church—
the highest praise, said lovingly.

Our hair, a matching brown color,
rich and dark like the Fall.
But then you dyed yours blonde.
So it wasn’t pretty, after all?

The same large, noticeable front teeth—
you swore when I smiled they’d shine.
But when you said you hated yours,
I heard what that said about mine.

Our frames were the same—short and small,
but you wanted yours to be thinner, new.
Sometimes you hated your body so much,
I wondered if you hated mine too.

You told me I was pretty,
but how could that be?
Because how you saw you,
was how I saw me.