For the first time since Dando died.
For the first time since we left our farm.
For the first time in a long time,
Muma and I hold each other.
And cry.
Together.
Muma’s arms,
folded around me,
so feeble.
All of her is shaking,
like from a fever.
Both our faces,
wet.
Tears,
on our chins,
on our necks.
Soaking the fabric
of our wrinkled cottons.
My arms,
small beneath Muma’s
but strong enough to show my mother
she’s allowed to cry.
Now,
after so much walking among brittle dirt.
Now,
after working hard,
like camels,
to store all that’s inside,
Muma and I
surrender to something
we’ve fought
to hold off.
Knowing that if we let it begin,
we may never stop.
Here comes gut-sound,
starting slow,
building,
then melting to shuddered breaths.
Until,
finally,
we sleep.