I was eight,
My cousin was eighteen.
He called his mother Mom
"When will I be old enough,"
I asked
"to call my mama Mom?"

Mom seemed a privilege
to be earned with age.
Eight year olds had to say
"mama" or "mommy"

I experimented with Mom
such a deliciously Western term.
I addressed birthday cards to Mom
and mother's day cards to Mom

She didn't seem to mind
so I started calling mama Mom

But the novelty wore off
and I got sick of Mom and of mom
And I wanted nothing to do with mom
so I wouldn't even call her Mom

She was Alia.
I called her by her first name
because I resented Mom and mom for loving me.

I called her Alia
She called me Daughter
a forceful reminder of the umbilical cord.

Then I went away to university,
over the Atlantic Ocean
a 14 hour plane ride away.

And I wouldn't call at all.
I wouldn't call to call her "mama" or "mommy" or Mom or even Alia.

But she would call
And she would call me Daughter
or "habibti" or "my sunshine."

And I didn't want to hear it.
I was eighteen
and I didn't need Mom.

I was gone eight months
and I didn't miss Mom
I didn't miss the Middle East
I didn't want to be home

I think She hated me for a while.

Then I was back in Toronto
University got hard
And I got tired
And I couldn't sleep
And friends proved false
And I got fat.

So I called Alia
And she stayed on skype with me, singing
Arabic Nursery Rhymes
until she saw I was asleep

And Mom watched me sleep.

But "mommy"
kept the laptop on all night
In case I woke up scared
and needed to call out for her
from across the Atlantic.

And "mama"
is at home
waiting for me
with a hug

And I just want to go back
and do it over
so I could take back every day
that I didn't call her
mommy.