I watch her walk across the room,
the phone squished to her ear.
She has a way of listening
that lets people know she hears.

The response comes easily for her.
The girl could talk on and on.
I wish the words would flow for me
like they do for my dear mom.

“You’re just like her,” they say to me,
but I can’t see the clue.
I don’t understand how this could be,
I just wish it were more true.

She’s tall like me, we both can cook,
and we each have giant eyes,
but she’s 10 times more than I could be,
so what’s important about eye size?

I have the memory she’s lost,
and I get English fine.
But she’s good at math and oh what I’d give
to have some more math mind.

She’s grace and love and patience
and funny and likes to laugh.
My life would be much happier
if I could surely take her path.

The road is sometimes foggy,
and often life’s not clear.
But she’s strong and loving and I’m her girl.
I have no need to fear.