Mother,


Mother,

Let me inherit your strength. Bring me to the day he lied to you and hand over your resolve, to me. Let my hands feel the weight of two feet walking away. Show me how your heart started building walls brick by brick – a wise, calculated move. The strong enough know their heart is not for everyone, so show me who to give the keys to.

Ma, why do men lie to us? why do we allow them to? why do we forgive?

Tell me the story of the day you lost yourself; the final layers of hope dropping to the floor
and how when the door swung open it took you days and days to shut it close. Tell me how the leaving of one man gave you a boy and a girl – the moon and the sun–

Was it worth it, all the nights you spent alone, in a street you never lived in before, cradling two humans that carry half of you? Tell me about the day you decided you’d raise us to be whole–

Because we did. You created love and boldness where there was none. Give me the skills of your hands, Mother.

Someday I’ll hand it to my daughter.

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