My lips were chapped

My lips were chapped.

The walk home did that.

The wind came off the river

and took all the moisture.

I had a tin of Vaseline

in my coat pocket.

I don't know when I put it there.

I used it.

The familiar smell came back.

Petroleum. The specific

childhood smell of being taken care of.

My mother did this to me.

Smooth, careful strokes

on my own lips

when I was small.

Now I'm doing it to myself.

The same motion. The same

careful attention. The same

gesture of care.

This is how things continue.

Not through conversation.

Not through understanding.

But through small gestures

repeated until they become

muscle memory.

I'm my mother now.

Or a version of her.

The version that knows

your lips will chap

and you need to take care of them.

The tin went back in my pocket.

I still have it there.

The smell is fading

but it's still there.

And tomorrow

if the wind comes again

I'll reach for it.

I'll do what was done to me.

I'll do it to myself.