little cosmic girl

I know your father always forgets your birthday and it makes you sad, but I have the date 15/5 etched onto my palm and I’ll never forget to call, even if the apocalypse comes, even if there’s three children of my own to feed, to cloth, to make grilled cheese and toast for. We’ll make the best Happy Birthday duet you’ve ever heard. This is a thank you poem: for allowing me to make choices, for always giving me a yes or a no answer – for always having an answer. For offering advice on boys, on virginity, on making it big in a world that hits you in the stomach and just as you’re standing up knocks the wind right out of you again. How you know things I don’t care to admit to myself just yet. How you make things make sense. How you cradle my skeleton to your chest like the broken, fragile wings of a baby bird. How you force me to stand outside, basking in the sun for the ‘daily dosage’ of Vitamin D. For feeding me, for clothing me, for opening and closing doors for me with your hands — those cold hands which pressed against my forehead at the boiling point of fevers, those fingers which brought table spoons of honey to my mouth when it felt like there were a thousand razor blades cutting into my throat. This is for you: for accepting my career choice, even though it’s the polar opposite of a doctor or a lawyer. For understanding that I could never be either of those things. For taking me to my first music class where we clapped and danced, spun around in delirious circles, that small room with the wooden floor boards, the place where I first learnt what being human meant. For forcing me to get out of the house when I felt sad. For drawing the curtains back. For all of this. For making me believe in the light again.