you fancy me mad.

some days i call her first mom if real mom is making me mad. second mom sometimes is my best friend. sometimes second mom is like the sister i never had. i would spend weeks upon weeks (consecutively, of course, i need to make time for my family, too) living in her place. she would show me her old toys and we’d talk about her favorite shows. around the holidays we would make delicious treats and be uncertain with how cold it might get.

second mom’s wrinkled smile would hide behind her shawl as we went out. she would fetch me her knitted sweaters, and hats, and gloves. made just for me. i was short and stout, she was rigid and tall. we would laugh and share lemonade on her porch during the spring and tune in to watch wheel of fortune, stumbling over some of the letters we tried to guess.

second mom was my joy. second mom was my dreams. and to wake up without her is like waking up without neither of those things. to let tear drops fall and my heart sink so low you’d call it the broken ship. second mom’s voice still rings in my mind. she always told me to keep the faith. second mom always told me to let go even if it hurts, because overtime, your broken heart becomes a blooming rose.

i like to call her my second mom.