She never got to brush my hair, Or chase the monsters from my room. They say she kissed me once, then slept A silence wrapped inside her womb. No stories read, no lullabies, Just weeping hands and folded prayers. The day she died, the sun stood still, And left her footprints on the stairs. Years passed And in a dusty box, Tied in a ribbon thin with time, I found the paper she had held, And every line was still in rhyme. The ink was soft, like wind through trees. The edges worn with love and pain. She spoke to me from where she sleeps Each word, a whisper through the rain. "My baby girl, if you’re alone, And grief becomes your second skin, Don’t fold beneath this heavy world Let something bright still breathe within." I read it once, I read it twice, And every breath became a plea. A ghost of her inside each word That somehow kept on holding me. "You may not know the sound I made, Or feel the way I held your hand, But love is louder than goodbye And stronger than you'll understand." "You’ll hurt, my love. Oh, yes, you will. The world is not a gentle place. But when it breaks you, bend-don’t snap, And lift your eyes to find my face." I wept against that fragile page Until the ink began to blur. But still, her voice was soft and clear I swear that I could almost hear... "Don’t give up, not right before The miracle you’re aching for. When night is all that you can see, Just look above, and think of me." And there-beneath her final line, She'd drawn a crooked little sun. A shaky heart... a stick-figure girl The mother I'd become. She never saw my growing face. She never heard me say her name. But still-through every shattered year She mothered me… just the same.