I carry her gestures.

Subtle inheritances

that pass through touch,

through rhythm,

through the repetition of care.

In the act of mothering

I meet her again-

not as memory,

but as movement.

I feel her in my reach.

I hear her on my breath.

I taste her in my tears.

Each moment

a conversation

between past and present.

Between the woman who came before

and the child

who carries us forward.