The day I spoke back to my mother,
I thought I was grown,
like village boys wearing man-skins too soon
My words, sharp as broken glass,
were heavy with things swallowed in silence.
I thought they would break free like the river after the rain
flooding everything in its path.
I had learned early to bend with the weight of her voice,
to listen as one listens to the wind,
unquestioning, yielding.
The day I spoke back to my mother,
her eyes locked onto mine,
hard as the bark of a tree,
and in that moment I felt it;
the storm I was not prepared for.
Her palm, like the crack of a whip,
punishment and love into one sharp sound,
that beat me into silence.
Each strike a lesson,
each breath a prayer
for the child I forgot to be.
And just like that,
The anger I thought was mine died in her hands.
I learned that some questions are too heavy for a child to ask
And some truths too fierce to be unlearned.
