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Morning has broken like the first morning, Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
A new caregiver, again. A new person to induct into our family's sadness, who will understand it and process it through her own life's lens.
"The other day-- too much," she told me, "I sobbed thinking about your momma. Good husband. Family."
She shows me pictures of her family, another continent away. She sends them money so they can finish their house. Then she will go with them again. To play with her grandchildren, to care for her own momma.
We sit at the table. She shows me one of her poems. Says been writing them for years. I nod, appreciating her words, tell her I write too, try to explain it's mostly about my momma. It's more gestures than words--there are oceans between our languages--but we find a way to understand.
"Yes, your momma. Very good. Very beautiful."