My mother writes poetry.
She has for years, though I never knew.
She keeps her poems in a journal,
Tucked safely away.
She showed me the book once.
I read all the poems in it.
Things that I never thought twice about,
She wrote about.
Things I never thought she remembered,
She wrote about.
Things I did when I was two years old,
She wrote about.
It was beautiful.
I had never seen her as creative before,
I had never even liked poetry before.
But her book,
Tucked away in a drawer until that day,
It brought me to tears.