my mother is beautiful
like antique metal
and dusty engagement rings.
i look in her tarnished silver
hand mirror
and try to turn my face
in search of resemblance,
but the glass
is freckled with age
and i have mascara runs on my cheeks
so i put it facedown again
and draw a smile on its dusty back
instead.

wind chimes sound outside
as my fingertips brush her earrings
and necklaces,
remember times
when i'd sit on her bed
and choose jewels for her to wear
while sipping warm milk
from a covered cup.

there's a watercolor hung
over a crack in the off-white wall
of a flower vase i did in fifth grade.
i still taste the pride
as i stare at it now
while fingering my mother's dark-gold
engagement ring
adorned with a sapphire framed by diamonds
she refuses to have it resized
(i would too.)