Grandma sold mother
She was only a child
When she mothered
Another’s children
Grandma sold mother
To her father
To mother children
His lover couldn’t
Mother was alone
From the day
God breathed life
Into full nostrils
Building a legacy
With cast offs
Only Beautiful Shards
Sharp mosaic tiles
It wasn’t much
But always clean
She had nothing
But gave everything
So that I can have
the self-respect
Not to visit her
At Christmas.
I can’t stop crying. The facts are messy. She gave so much, so that I can have what she didn’t. She put me in places to become who she wished she could be, and succeeded in completely upending a legacy of poverty, and criminality. How to preserve a relationship that threatens to unravel the work of a lifetime? Soft humans are fragile. What am I made of? How does this stuff age? Does this soft stuff brittle and shatter? Harden and densify? Crystalize?