I thought the motel was quaint,
cobblestone and yellow-painted plaster wall
fit nice against the mountain backdrop,
paired with the greens and grays of spindly trees and sporadic brush,
the blues and pinks and oranges of the late afternoon sky.
Sat alone yet cozy at the end of the road,
“Sorry, I didn’t think this would be creepy,”
her pessimism clung, cigarette stench in motel sheets.
From atop a hill, underneath a branch,
I take a moment
from hiking a rocky trail
donned with cacti, foxes, pebbles, and grasshoppers,
relishing in relief from the berating sun,
and looked down on the world beneath me.
I thought the highway looked fake,
unreal, plastic trucks and cars
like a model set in someone’s basement.
I asked her if she agreed,
…I guess I could see it.”
I look away to ground reality, myself.
I sit stiff, feeling foreign in her car.
Returning to the house, stranger
pain sunk into my chest.
“You know, I feel like you and I are the same for a lot of things,”
her referring to some vague, mundane habit
I can’t even remember.
I truly don’t feel this way at all,
The anonymous author of the piece “Mother and Daughter” is a sophomore political science and CCE major. In their free time, they like to write poetry, read books, draw, and listen to music. Outside of those things, they are passionate about their hometown politics, particularly in shifting voting patterns and the dynamics of race and class.