It is 3 am and we are sitting in your midnight blue Honda, In an empty elementary school parking lot, talking.
You are telling me stories from your childhood.
You tell me that Somali mothers
know how to grin and bare it better than any other women you know.
I listen to you tell me how your mother bared her way through raising four kids alone, in a country that didn’t want her.
You speak of her so delicately, that I almost mistook the word Hoya for a sliver of glass that you were trying not to cut your mouth on.
I imagine your mother,
grinning through the absence of your father and trying to turn you into the man she hoped he’d be.
You say that she says you are just like him when ever she’s mad.
I wonder if he taught you how to pick up and leave behind women as broken as she is.
Women who ache hard for everyone else forgetting to ache for themselves.
I watch your mouth as you tell me how much she worried for you,
how in Somalia, sheikhs would come asking her opinion on Islamic Rulings for women, but how in this country she is an immigrant, with no husband and traditional ways.
You say this place has turned her bitter, it has dried up her youth and her ability to trust.
You say you are nothing like your father.
That you could never destroy a woman so viciously.
And as I watch the beard on your face make everything you say sound pure,
I secretly pray to God that, that is the truth.
— Key Ballah (via keywrites)