A Mother’s Freedom

They say a mother should be a still pond,
but she is the ocean.
Watch her:
waves of fury when the world tries to shrink her daughter,
tides of tenderness when her son whispers “I’m scared,”
hurricanes of hope when the night feels infinite.
She sheds the imitation designer armor,
lets her stretch marks ripple like topography maps,
her wrinkles etching sonnets of survival.
In her chaos, there’s a cosmos—
a galaxy of mismatched Legos,
half-drunk coffee cups,
and “I love yous” yelled over math homework.
Her freedom roars, not in spite of the mess,
but because of it…

The Unraveling

The Unraveling Ends

Perhaps I can’t rewind, time’s a one-way street,
But the love and the lessons, forever ingrained, forever sweet.
I can appreciate the scars, the laughter, the tears,
The indelible marks of the love that conquers all fears.

The clothesline, a metaphor for life’s unfolding tale,
Hung with memories, sunshine, and the love that will never fail.

Yet, there’s a bittersweet beauty in acceptance. The love remains, a hand reaching out across the years. It’s in the way she folds my laundry, a silent comfort in the familiarity of the gesture. It’s in the crinkled corners of her smile, lines etched by a lifetime of love and worry…