My mother’s hands are soft as sand. She says something about where I'm supposed to be in my life and I'm nervous she thinks I should be standing closer the closure, she knows I'm not who I thought I'd turn out to be.
My mother’s mother made her the worrier she is today, and the warrior she had to be to get by.
The day my mother’s mother passed we mourned the progression of the woman we thought of as freedom.
Family has always had a huge part of my heart.
Now it's tattered and torn apart, everyone is aging and graying.
I'm only gaining so much knowledge on the subject.
I could write for hours - there is so much rage drumming against my rib cage.
I've saved enough sanity to grapple with the thought of losing you.
Looking at her now I see that she's been on the same road as me.
The mother of my mother made her promise I'd be better.
My mother's hands are as soft as sand - her sun burnt country betrayed her and now she huddles in the frozen north.
There's nothing here but our snow stung crowd.
My mother makes me smile, suggests it as fall back if my straight face falls.
I've never been able to keep anything straight - least of all me.
My mother made me, and I'm molded by her strength branded hands.
Soft as sand.