New Poetry : In the Bathroom Sink

In the Bathroom Sink (v. 2)

My mother washes her hair. She can’t hear
the doorbell. There are bubbles in her ears,
a faucet spraying loud beads to her scalp.

Eyes closed, her hands are so busy
all over her head in an orbit of suds and massage,
twisting the hair together after every cycle.

From the hallway I watch her.
What’s she thinking about?
My father? The color of her favorite lipstick?
What she’ll cook for dinner?
Me?

The girl in the mirror has scrubbed away
a familiar face. She is not my mother anymore.

Taking a towel from the wall,
she lifts her head and opens her eyes
Water falls to her freckled shoulders,
and she sees me in the mirror’s reflection.
She smiles. I walk away, and answer
the ringing door.