My eyes could barely gaze upon
The dresser in Mom’s room;
I’d tiptoe up to see her things
And to smell of her perfume.
Talcum powder and a jewelry box
And some lipstick she never wore;
I tried so hard to reach those things,
Standing on the bottom drawer.
Her brush and comb were silver-rimmed
To tempt a little girl;
Her lace-trimmed gloves lay careless there
And her mirror, edged in pearl.
Her beads were hanging on the corner
Of the mirror, out of reach;
I was not allowed to play with them
No matter how I would beseech.
“Those aren’t yours!” Momma scolded me
As she lifted me to her bed.
She combed my hair and gave me her mirror;
“See how pretty,” Momma said.
Copyright © 1998 by moleta ruth mccarter. All rights reserved.
