My mother is beautiful. Beautiful like brownies,brownies that she never made for me. Mother doesn't work; well, she works, butdoes not get paid. She only gets paid with hugs and kisses that I give her if Iremember. She is stressed and angry. Her hands are warm like chocolate, but roughlike beach sand. Her hair is black like coffee and beautiful like a summer night.Her heart isn't free and doesn't fly. Sometimes I wonder if I hold her back. Holdher back from something greater and better.

My mother was meant to besomething or someone. Now I feel like I ruined her great spirit. My mother isbetter than this town, destined for something more. I wonder what my fatherthinks. If he knows how lucky he is to have my mother. It's hard for me toremember that she is more than my mother. She is a woman. A woman who used toknow how to stand alone, but somehow along the way has forgotten how.

Iwant to be as wonderful as my mother. I can only dream about being as beautiful.I want her smile and her grace. Sometimes I wonder if I am destined for somethingmore than this town, just like her. She never made it. I ask her if she haddreams when she was my age. She just smiles her classic smile because I don'tthink she knows how to reply. But I know I have dreams, and I will do everythingin my power to make them come true. I will never forget how to stand alone.

(Inspired by The House on Mango Street by SandraCisneros)