So the last time Mami cried was when I did not abandon her
She carried me out to term and still they were unsure
Mami’s fear presents itself in the quietest of moments
she finds herself by my bedside- be reminded that a child could be
unburdened by all that was placed against her
Does not want to wake me
Cannot bear to witness her daughter’s tendency to grasp her hand
When my strength insisted that maybe I would give up this time
Mami looks at me and tries not to remember her brother- who
died of AIDs in the 90s
Another brown body forgotten in a Bronx burial scene
His skin as pale as hers now
His eyes- a sunken treasure of tears that no one is allowed to
witness
There’s never room for crying
in a home that’s accustomed to death
Black kids aren’t supposed to get sick
I spend my childhood learning how to reassure my mother that
she raised me right,
that we willed my health back to how she imagined me,
cradled in the corner of my parent’s bedroom,
my lungs- a steady rhythm to lull away her fears
Crying precedes short breaths that make me lose control of myself
I internalize it all
and tell my mother not to worry
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