I was washing the breakfast dishes

I was washing the breakfast dishes

when the light hit my hands just right,

and there were my mother's wishes

in my knuckles, in my sight.

My hands in the hot soapy water,

the veins showing blue-green through—

a map I didn't ask for,

a map that suddenly knew

exactly who I was,

exactly who I'd become,

and I understood because

the aging had a sum.

Time passes down through hands,

through knuckles, through the skin,

and we become what we understand

we never wanted to begin.

I pulled my hands from the water.

They were wrinkled, wet, strange.

I'd become what I'd sought to harbor—

and nothing would change.

The veins stayed blue-green.

The knowledge stayed with me.

And I understood what it means

to become and see

yourself as her, to recognize

the inheritance in your face,

to watch your mother's eyes

stare back from your place.