Her favorite thing,
her favorite thing was looking into her mothers eyes,
at how they crinkled at the sides,
and just knowing that all was right
That she could run,
she could skip
she could trip
she could dream,
however small,
however big,
and that her mother would
always,
always be by her side
And even at seven years old
as they dressed her in
gold,
Henna
her very own garmasees,
she twirling in excitement,
given candy
pinches to her cheek
her mother holding out her hand
And she,
she smiling so bright
And nothing was wrong,
not even when
she was laid flat on her back,
told to hold still
So still,
So still
although there were many a strange hands,
it didn’t matter because,
because
as long as she could see her mothers eyes,
all was all right
but
her mother was looking away
as if ashamed,
and suddenly
there was the pain
a pain that never really went away
A pain that grew and changed
The pain of
having four women hold her so she could go to the bathroom
The pain of
hurting but not really knowing why it hurt so much
The pain of
sitting through her wedding, having to wear that
same garmasees,
that
same henna,
hear those
same zaghareet
not knowing
what lay behind those bedroom doors
The pain of
suffering in silence
as again she lay flat on her back
held still,
so still,
so still
because she wasn’t even really there,
and just maybe,
maybe,
the pain for just this once
would ignore
forget her,
just like her mother,
and father,
and family
forgot to mention that pain
would forever be a companion to her
And through it all ,
all she was really missing
was her mothers eyes,
from the birth of her first child
to a marriage that was marred
by a tranquility
of her not able to speak
the words in her mind
of
frustration,
agony,
discontent
and when she looks down
at her very own daughter’s eyes
She holding on so
So tight
So trustingly to her hand,
the history of pain
ready to be played out again
All she could remember
could only remember
her very own mother’s eyes
all she was really missing
Was her mother’s eyes
Nubian(Q) 