Un an de când am trăit
Fiecare pas într-un loc îndreptat
De unde nu te-ai mai mișcat
Și cățelușii, doar eu i-am plimbat

Un an de când nu ne-ai poftit
La masă, in memoria ta intristat
Acum eu la alții am dat
Și de băut, și de mâncat

Un an de când nu ne-am zâmbit
Multă lume m-a îmbrațișat
Numele tău se ivi menționat
Și tu nu, în mod repetat

Un an de când ai murit

She cooked with love  
but not In the way that most people  
think Of such things when they say it    
  
It wasn't that you could taste her love  
In the flavor or even that she loved to cook  
It was that there were always leftovers  
  
Sometimes that meant more of our favorites  
Like homemade pizza for breakfast on Saturday  
And sometimes it meant more meatloaf  

But what it always meant was there was room  
At the table for another chair or two or three  
That it never felt like an imposition to share a  
Meal or the warmth around the table with someone  
Who needed it and our friends stayed more than  
They left when she called “suppers ready”  
  
It meant that there was always food in the  
Fridge ready to be reheated and doled out  
to hungry Teenagers whether they belonged  
To her or not and that “no thanks” or “I'm fine”  
Just meant she moved to the next shelf  
and tried again until there was a “sure”  
  
And as the years went on it never changed  
Just the people around the table
There was always a friend or a neighbor  
Who would gladly fill those seats because  
Mom always cooked with love  
And there were always leftovers

They say I’m lucky
to be here.
Boarding school.
Safe.
Fed.
Books in my hands,
a roof that doesn’t leak.
But luck feels like a cruel joke
when you cry in a bed
no one tucked you into.

My stepmom’s voice doesn’t need to travel far—
it lives in me now.
“You’re too much.”
“You ruin everything.”
“No wonder your mother left.”
And I hate how fast I believe her.
How deep those words go.

Because my real mum did leave.
Not by accident.
Not by death.
She left because she didn’t want to be a mum.
Not my mum.
Not with me in the picture.
Fifteen years old
and I still wonder
what it was about me
that made her walk away.

Was I born too loud?
Too soft?
Too inconvenient to keep?

She sends postcards sometimes.
From places I’ve never been.
Smiling in sunglasses,
signing with love
like she remembers what that means.
But love doesn’t show up twice a year
and forget your birthday.

So I sit here,
in classrooms where no one knows
why I flinch at kindness,
why I don't raise my hand.
They don’t see the girl
who keeps herself small
so she won’t be sent away again.

I imagine the van sometimes—
that guy with the dog and the dust roads.
I imagine running,
not toward something,
but away.
From the house that wasn’t mine.
From the voice that broke me.
From the silence my mother left behind.

But what if I never run?
What if I just grow older
and colder,
wearing a mask that looks like success
but feels like surviving?

What if I stay here—
the girl left behind twice,
too scared to dream,
too used to being unwanted
to believe she could ever be more?

What if I don’t make it—
and no one notices
because they never expected me to
in the first place?

I crack it open softly
letting a single sliver of soft golden light
pour in, a solitary ray of sunshine breaking
through the clouds.
I hear the whisper of her steady breathing,
rhythmic waves ebbing and flowing,
on the slow inhale of the sea.
Her old penny copper hair twinkles in the light,
strands borrowed from a seraph's braid.
I envy her easy slumber,
the way her lips part with the stillness
of full relaxation.
I tiptoe across the carpet,
a sentinel seeking to capture the moment
in a bottle, or in my marrow.
I sit beside her and marvel at the miracle of her,
how she was forged from my very blood,
from my very bones,
smirking; she has my spirit too.
The world will not be ready,
not for her fierce blue eyes,
nor the blade I'll teach her to wield with her tongue
and a spine that won't need fire to be steeled.
I kiss the top of her resting head;
she does not stir.
I retreat in tiptoe,
close it delicately behind me,
and I pray.
I pray she never forgets the joy
of floating bubbles.
I pray she always uses the word NO
as powerfully as the age of 3 declares it.
I pray she will continue to run to me,
for hugs,
for comfort from every dark,
for love that will cover over every hurt,
and tend to every need.
And I pray she could always know this peace
and the guard of a door
opened and closed
by a heart, humbled and grateful.

I need time
To be normal again —
If I can ever be the way I was

I need time
For those thousands of emotions to settle —
If they can ever settle  

I need time
To not cry
To beat the sadness
To sleep well —
And not to wake up with an aching heart

I need time
For my mind to clear
To function logically

I need time
To smile again
To tell you that everything is okay

Because it’s not okay
I am not okay

So don’t tell me to move on just now
Don’t tell me to not hold on to the past
Don’t tell me this and that

Because I loved deeply
And I love deeply

Because I am grieving —
And though for someone, it may be one less person in a world of over 8 billion people
To me, she was my mother, my world