My (future) daughter I will one day be able to explain intricate things to my daughter, Even though I will not fully understand them either; Like the effect that mine and her father’s relationship will have on her, Even when she doesn’t want it to, I’ll know that if one of us should walk out on her, Her spirit will never find rest, It’ll always dance unfinished choreographies And crave things that the earth cannot produce. When I find scribbles of dark poetry in her drawer, I will simply sit on her bed & open the windows to dry my tears, Remembering that the bearer of a poet is often an aching heart – So, my daughter’s sadness, Hurtful as it may be, Will be okay. She’ll come home that afternoon, Find me going through her stuff And she’ll tell me where to get off. In that moment, I’ll realize just how long the thread of distrust I have carried since I was a kid has extended itself, Or how I have held on to it like a coat that keeps me warm in winter . . . I might just passively accept my daughter’s ‘disrespect,’ Upon realizing that most of it is my fault, That I have chased material things to reciprocate that which my mother could never afford for me, And that in so doing, I neglected my soul. Whether I say this to her or not, I will know her fear of being attached To the boy she really loves, How she’d rather go out of her way to ruin everything Than fall in love. I’ll know it too well, I’ll know it like the back of my hand, It’ll resonate with the fear I had to have her, Not too sure if my womb was deserving of such a blessing. If I will not know anything about her, Fear will be the exception, It’ll breath life on her umbilical cord Years after she will have moved out, Gotten married and had children of her own. She’ll know my fear too, Even though I will not have uttered a word about it, She’ll cry about it next to me, On her bed That very same afternoon, While her face is hit by reddish sunray. “I’m sorry mom,” “I need you to trust me,” “I don’t know how to speak to you about how I really feel,” And in that instance, I will have to find it somewhere within me to make way for my vulnerability, So that whatever I say to her right then and there, May be passionately entrenched from my heart, So that whatever situation she may encounter in life, We can still always be able sit on this very same bed, Right across her window, My hands gently moving through her hair, As her head rests on my lap, Starring at the white lilies in the back yard, Just listening to her, Telling her to keep on crying. Ziphozakhe Hlobo
Posted on: Tue, 16 Dec 2014 13:07:04 +0000
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