Grateful
barely carries the weight
of what I feel when your name crosses my mind.

A sister,
confidant,
a mother,
to me.

You wore many hats
before you ever had a chance to choose your crown.

Bore scars in silence,
bruises left not by fists,
but by mouths that misunderstood your obedience.

“Drink water if you’re not full”
a line that echoes like a lullaby from lack.
Lights out,
no water,
in Louisiana heat.

Poverty?
That’s putting it light.
We were surviving storms without shelter.

But still,
you shielded us
with shoulders too small
for the weight they carried.

You nearly traded your diploma
for our dinner.
You were Mama to five
before you had babies of your own.

Now,
a momma of five
still loving, still giving.
And I hope you know
I see you.

I thank God for you.
I pray peace over you.
I honor the happy ending you’ve walked into
the love you married,
the love you carried,
and the love you gave to us
when there was nothing left to give.

So this is me
giving you your flowers
while your hands are still warm enough to hold them.
While your heart is still beating near mine.

Thank you, Jilly.
For surviving.
For loving.
For carrying what you shouldn’t have had to.