The Sun
Mama, I feel the weight of grief
collecting like snow on winter boots
heavy with regrets
love
melancholy.
The more I trudge on
the more lives and stories I leave behind
yet I carry them all with me.
I stop walking and the bitterness washes over me
like a swell at dusk.
A whisper of sweetness.
Mist over my eyes.
Salty wind whipping my hair into sticky clumps.
Memories like snow.
Memories like sand.
Mama, I feel my years upon me.
I have scars on my knees
and calluses on my feet.
I am no longer an unrefined ore
I’ve no right to dream of gems and perfection
and I’m too old to feign ignorance anymore.
Mama, I feel the weight of the world.
I close my eyes and I see it all
the hate, the tenderness,
the courage, the injustice.
I sometimes can’t help but feel my heart tug
and tear a little from the load.
Mama, how can this be?
I am but a child.
Will it always be this way?
She takes my hand and smiles
and mama’s eyes become my own.
For a moment
she bears my burden and I catch a glimpse of hers.
Mama carries the sun.
“Yes, dear.
And you must live.”
(Archive from 13/04/24)