02/11/2026
Still We Bloom
We have known the language of slammed doors,
of silence stretched thin as winter light,
of words we wish we could gather back
like shards of a dropped plate.
We have stood on opposite sides of the same storm,
each certain the other held the umbrella,
each soaked to the bone with hurt
too stubborn to name.
There were years stitched with tight seams-
curfews and slammed brakes,
tearful goodbyes at bedroom thresholds,
love disguised as rules,
freedom disguised as defiance.
Me, Mother-
with my hands smelling of onions and soap,
counting pennies and prayers at the kitchen table,
building a life from sheer will
and sleepless nights.
You, Daughter—
all sharp edges and borrowed courage,
mistaking your fear for doubt,
your caution for chains,
aching to be seen as more than fragile.
We have said things that left bruises.
We have swallowed apologies like bitter pills.
We have circled each other
like wounded animals who recognize
their own reflection in the other’s eyes.
But love-
love never packed its bags.
It waited in the hallway
outside hospital rooms and heartbreaks.
It hummed in the car during long, wordless drives.
It showed up in sliced fruit left on the counter,
in late-night texts that read,
“Are you home safe?”
It was there in the way
your voice still softens when you say my name.
In the way I still reach for you
when the world feels too large.
We are not perfect.
We are patched and mended,
scar tracing scar like a map
of where we’ve survived.
And still-
when I look at you,
I see the woman who I taught
how to stand,
even when your knees shook.
When I look at you,
I see the girl I once carried,
now carrying pieces of you
into rooms you’ve never entered.
We have been through the fire
and come out smelling of smoke,
but somehow—
still blooming.
Rooted in the same stubborn soil,
reaching toward the same forgiving sun,
mother and daughter,
not unbroken-
but unbreakable.
