Mimic

He copies everything I do now.

From my workings in the kitchen,

He will make me a cake of Cheerios and Wheat Chex.

From my wrapping of gifts,

He throws his blanket over my vacuum cleaner,

And says "Mommy, I got you a present!"

From my scolding euphemisms,

He will frown, one eyebrow arched

and tell me he is not happy with me.

And from my mouth he steals the curse words

That accidently slip out,

Singing "Damn it, damn it!" from the backseat.

Yet perhaps the best mimic which melts my mother's heart,

Is when he presses his nose against my nose,

Tiny hands holding my face.

He kisses my nose, my cheeks, and my scarred, lined forehead.

He studies me, and says,

"Mommy? You happy now?"

 

Catherine Schmidt