gooseberry toes

Enough has been written about mothering, but each adventure is new. Each is our own. What surprises me: everything and nothing. It all overrides my surprise function and goes deep into some other part of me, where all this is somehow known. Atavistic. The shape of her ear, like complicated fruit, against her skull. Her hunger. Her gooseberry toes. A flesh that came from me. I know her because she is me. (My mother once said this to me and I thought how egotistical and wrong she was. Now I see.)