My mother’s mouth is pursed, <br />bristling with pins. <br />Today she frowns in the pale sun <br />filtering through the sash window. <br />She pins and tucks, making me a dress <br />to fit my newly budding chest. <br /> <br />I stand still, sucking in <br />my puppy-round tummy. <br />“You’ve a nice waist now, ” <br />says the one I still call “Mummy”. <br /> <br />We can’t yet know, <br />but soon we shall discover <br />that with my grown-up body <br />I shall find my grown-up voice. <br />She will become coldly “Mother”. <br />I’ll struggle, break the bond, <br />find new clothes of my own choice, <br />go my way, take my risks, <br />put my faith in others. <br /> <br />There I stand, draped in soft green, <br />still defined by my mother’s loving handiwork. <br />For fifty years that morning has been <br />hung in my mind’s wardrobe. <br /> <br />The green dress long ago has turned to dust. <br />It was the last time that I felt uncomplicated trust.<br /><br />Janice Windle<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-mother-new-clothes/
