strawbiefields

'Girls like you' your mother says ‘are going to be disappointed a lot.’ She’s chopping coriander so fast that her hand is a blur and you’re 12 and you’re standing like a tremble, grubby knees and tear stained cheeks, an offering in front of her ‘Why?’ Your voice is a quiet shake. She puts the knife down and calls you ‘jaan’ she holds your face in her wet hands, you don’t flinch because this is what love looks like she kisses your forehead like forgiveness ‘because you mean what you say, you think other people are the same.’ She tells you that she spent four years trying to learn their language but people ask how you are and walk away before you can tell them. ‘I’d rather be silent.’ She says. ‘At least being quiet is honest.’ You’ll come home seven years later wearing your heart like a bruise on the inside of your sleeve ‘mama,’ you’ll say, voice like a thunder crack ‘he said he loved me, and I believed him, I shouldn’t have, I think that he lied.’ She’ll be older then, but she’ll kiss you just as tender, just as birdlike. ‘Is it my fault?’ You’ll ask. She is half lioness, half woman. She is all roar. ‘Listen to me’ she calls you her soul again. She says it in your language so you know that she means it. ‘You are so infinitely tender,’ she takes the frown of your face in her hands and holds it carefully 'People will not always know what to do with that. You can’t ever be sorry for the way you loved, You can’t be sorry for who you loved. Don’t ever let them bend you backwards don’t let them make you hard or bitter.’ Her voice turns into a growl 'You did not get this from me. Somewhere inside of you there is rain. Somewhere in your stomach, something beautiful is growing and it is infinite. Don’t you let them try and take that from you, you are open and you are a flood, someday someone is going to want to die in you.’