the gold mom carried gave bruises
and blisters
and wounds.
mom saw the mountains ahead of her
and cried while climbing them.
amidst the agony I saw mom bare another child.
on the trail,
shaded from the sun,
the child was born of spite.
spite,
because the only color she knew was dirt.
spite,
because the forest floor that cradled her was cold.
spite,
because every morning the dew settled in her hair
and was wet.
spite,
because she was different.
mom cried and wept and begged the trees to move.
clear a path for the sun to shine through.
but sister never got to see the sun
and on mom
more wounds festered.
three kids with no sun to see.
three kids and so much love they would need.
what kind of life would that be?
I told stories of the sun that I remembered.
stories of the magic and warmth.
brother liked these stories.
sister liked these stories.
mom liked these stories too.
they helped ease the passing of time.
mom held her head towards the sky and climbed.
determined.
at the top of the mountain mom bore another child.
this child was not born of spite.
she saw the sun's love firsthand,
when the sun kissed
her blue eyes.
