My First Kiss

Momma remembered light, the thrill in my grin—

a whisper of joy on my skin.

She says she smiled, said "finally, love".

I remember shame, not stars above.

Her voice, a veil of silken pride—

she tells it like a warm sunrise.

But mine recalls a stormy glance,

her tone sharp enough to lance.

She says she cheered, her heart set free.

I heard her say "don’t lie to me".

Her warmth was buried under doubt,

while I was trying to shut it out.

What changed the lens through which we see?

The girl I was, the mom she’d be?

Did fear distort her guarding eyes—

while mine caught barbs and not the sighs?

Yet somewhere in that tangled scene,

love pulsed—erratic, flawed, unseen.

Two truths, both tethered to one day

a memory we can’t pin down one way.

She was thrilled. I was crushed.

She held hope. I flushed and hushed.

And now, we can never reconcile

what fractured in that fragile mile.

Still, love should be louder than the rift—

though time may blur the shifting gift.

And so I hold her story near

while nursing mine with tender fear.