Daniel, a poem collection.

A boy's mother

How come everything from my mom is perfect?
I love my mother.
She wasn't perfect always, but it seemed like she was.
The way her hair is always styled but she always thinks it wasn't good.
Her hair, how can one describe it? It's curly and has changed many colors and styles. Short and bobbed. Brown, too. She didn't like that one.

Black, sleek, and curly. When it was straightened she didn't like it.
She doesn't like many things about herself but I remind her of the things my brother and I love about her.

I liked how she acts how she is young, in her twenties. I'm glad she still does.

I love my mother.

When she was fifteen, her hair, it was like mine when I was that age. In a ponytail, her forehead showing. I got my huge forehead from ma I always say. And her hair was always gelled. She liked that one. It was thick and curly, like mine. Everyone liked that one. I did too.

I wonder how something so amazing ended up with my dad.

Occasionally I'm glad she's with dad but not always.
Other times he makes me wonder why she's even with such ... a thing.
An indescribable thing.

But my mother isn't perfect always.

Her hair isn't always either, it changes.

Once it was a messy brown, with bangs all cut up – she really didn't like that one. We don't like speaking about that one.

She always seemed so perfect to me. Dad knew her since he was twenty but I knew her since I was born. Maybe he knew about her private secrets but I've seen her every day in my life. Every time she would weep in the dark, every time she would hold me close and smell her sweet hair. Every argument, every cry, every tear, every laughter.

I love my mother, I was I was a better son.