My mother’s eyes
hold the weight of 53 years.
Five decades of life
puffed like stuffed tears
held in dark stained bags.
Spectacle indents
on the bridge of her nose
—permanent molds of scrutiny
kneaded like dough.
Fingertips cracked,
Burst at the seams
on labored hands
that carried five kids,
with a voice like the thunder
of a storm
or the calm thereafter.
Thick skin, still folded by age
like creased school shirts
—each line symbolizing
after trial...
after trial...
A back bent by the weight
of every page in her story
With a spine, still strong enough
to bind them.
Her feet have walked miles
for everyone else
—each step taking her further
from where she wanted to be
for herself.
But through the hazel glow
of her eyes,
I still see the promise of hope
If not for herself,
then for me...
...that the only
and molds
that I may encounter throughout the miles
I am yet to walk,
will be remnants of a lighter story,
with fewer storms and
a destination further than her own.
And all I hope for,
is that one day
I may say:
lay down your book
and put up your feet
remove your hands from the chemicals
and let the shirts stay creased,
because I,
will now hold you,
the way that you, have always held me.

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Barb Clarke
over 3 years

Your mother must be a strong soul, well done.

Zaytoen Domingo
Zaytoen Domingo
over 3 years

She is indeed:) thank you

over 3 years

A fantastic tribute to what I can only surmise is a truly awesome and loving mother!!!

Zaytoen Domingo
Zaytoen Domingo
over 3 years

Thank you Vic <3

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Vic Barb Clarke

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