Poem: Mother at the River

For the woman before the silence,

who once sang by the water she carried.

And I saw you—

not in the house of duty,

but in the field of the first light.

You were gathering water

in a vessel worn smooth by years.

Your hair was loose,

your hands unhurried.

The sun touched your face

without asking,

and you let it.

You were not calling out.

You were not scolding.

You were simply—

there.

Whole.

Breathing.

The air around you

smelled of jasmine and bread.

Not the kind you baked in sacrifice,

but the kind that rises

because it can.

And then—

I saw them:

the village children,

barefoot and beaming,

calling your name.

They carried baskets,

ripe with mangoes and warm rice,

gifts for the fisherman,

for the children,

for the women who cook at dawn

not out of burden,

but out of love.

Your name moved through the air

like a song

everyone knew.

You stirred pots beneath an open sky,

laughing softly,

sharing what you had

with those who came hungry—

not just for food,

but for the warmth of your presence.

This was not the labor

of barcodes and blinking lights.

Not the hum of the checkout line,

your body aching in a uniform

that never fit your soul.

Not the beauty measured

by brands or gold or jewelry,

but by the quiet in your eyes—

the eyes that bear witness,

that see beauty in others

and reflect it back like water.

And in that moment,

I saw *myself* in you.

My name in your voice,

my hands in your care,

my warmth

in the fruit you passed from your palms

to the open hands of others.

And I knew:

even in the places you lost your path,

even in the silence,

you were always trying to give.

And I said in my heart:

Here is the woman before the silence.

Here is the woman before the giving-away.

You, whose eyes once narrowed with worry,

now wide with wonder.

You, who measured every moment in service,

now walking with the ease of one

who belongs to herself.

Was this the mother

the world did not let me keep?

Or the soul

who hid behind the doing?

And when I woke,

my throat still warm

with your name,

I whispered to the wind:

I hope you can see yourself

in the way I saw you then.

I hope you know how beautiful you are,

even if the world told you to forget.

For I saw not the mother

who disappeared behind the tasks,

but the woman

who carried a whole world

in her chest—

and still remembered

how to kneel by the river

and sing.

In that vision,

I did not reach for you.

I simply watched,

and I wept.

And in that light,

I loved you.

Not for what you gave,

but for what you are—

and maybe still are,

somewhere beyond the veil,

resting in the garden

of your own becoming.