I watched you walk into the darkness of the night. I watched the sky swallow you. I watched you die, as you put yourself on a throne too big for you.

You’re the colour of my mother’s favourite pain. The nightmare she endures because she’s convinced it’s her utopia. The addiction she dislikes but struggles to give up.

Until she finally goes to rehab. Wisdom guides her feet while her heart screams no. It’s a gruelling sound. A deafening scream. Like a mother during childbirth. It reminds her of childbirth.

Don’t go. Her heart stutters. Stuttering because the heart isn’t broken, it’s shattered.

Like our home. Mother took the pieces to church every Sunday hoping religion would be the glue to put them back together. Meanwhile, at home, she sat beneath the rain of verbal abuse, hoping they would water her garden. Hoping they’d make a new Eden.

But death seldom brings life unless through Christ. So instead, the torrential rain drowned the flowers; almost ruined the seeds.

And she watched. She saw. She saw them dying. Saw them crying. Saw them calling.


Why did you stay when you had every chance to go?

Why did you choose death when you knew you could have life.

Her response was, us.

We needed him.

But what you didn’t tell me Mama, was the truth.

You were scared to leave. You wanted to stay. You knew nothing else.

You never told me when we give our feelings supremacy they have the strength to break us. They can unknowingly mislead us to false truths and create false gods.

You never told me. But you taught me falling was a dangerous thing to do with love, because the repercussions of the fall could be fatal.

Now every night, beneath the kind sky and gentle moon, as the wind whispers and the stars sing, I teach myself an art.

Pray for a love I’ve never witnessed but believe somehow exists. All the while reminding myself that a man telling the woman he loves he’ll lie with another if she does not obey him is not true love.

Understanding that though he walked out on mother many times, he didn’t know he was walking out on me too.

She is worth the commitment. And so am I.

I think of all the babies, the ones that grew into beautiful adults, the ones unknown and those that were never given a chance. I pray for all the babies. Memories of their fathers and mothers tattooed on their skin. I pray they never resent those tattoos, but see their beauty. Because without them, there is no testimony.

Even when we had little, we never slept hungry because secrets were always available to keeps us full. Still yet there were very little tears.

Because it was easier to turn the agony to joy.

Easier to speak of pain with laughter. That way the pain could never really make a home where she was mocked. She’d see she wasn’t welcome.

Laughter was the better memory. The language we all spoke fluently. The friend that sat with us when we had no one. The mother that hugged us and held us all together. When we remember Family Matters, we can’t escape the jingles of glee. Our family sitcom.

As I sit with myself, in the solitude of my me, I hear the gates open and pray I don’t drown.

You watch.

Pain becomes art, when you encounter the Healer.

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