My mother wrote me a letter on a white peony today.
She told me to close my eyes and feel her.
That her twill suit and soft skin would come to me.
That her blue eyes and wet cheeks would soothe me.
That her voice would heal me.
That her body would catch me.
She told me that my family lived here.
That they curled in my hair and listened for me.
That my home was on my back.
But I still felt homeless.
Alone.
Far and lost.
And I keep wondering in my darkest places why I am not there?
When these years will never return.
When, one day, there will be no soft mother.
Only now, sharp clouds between us.
– Nisha Moodley