The cold winter afternoon
Born in daylight during the darkest season, the child debuts themself to a room of a strangers and familiar loved ones who they knew but didn't know.
Born to a cycle of pain and restrictions — they will know their story like the lines in their hand.
A young mother and father with an older brother. Grandmas and grandpas all look to them. They signal the hope of our family tree. That they are a healthy baby, newborn and free.
Held by warm hands and wistful sighs, the anticipation broke like the amniotic sack. Fresh and innocent, they are the perfect vessel to hold our family story.
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Mother, mother's mother.
Grandmother: the wisest and most shining example of care for others. Irish woman of tough skin and heart of gold. The rainbow surely ends at her chest. Child learns love from mother — to stick together and find trust in one another.
The stubborn stain on a white sweater.
Scrubbing no longer brings the fabric clean. Holding onto the stories of our foremothers — I remember her face, her breath, her love.
Gone too soon, but never forgotten. She grew up too fast to fill the space of her mother's care. Her sister too.
Such a pity how time has changed us so thoroughly.