We watched you from the kitchen door.
Your hand already knew the curve of a baby's back
before your body stopped being a child.

They said you were grown
when you first bled into your grandmother's sheets.
Nobody asked if you wanted the job.

We were the women who let you climb into womanhood
without a ladder.
Handing you the groceries, the keys, the younger ones.

We forgot to tell you
that a girl can hold the world
and still be held herself.

So now we say sorry
with lent money and leftover stew.
We say it with silence on Sunday afternoons.

You learn to slow down.
Your knees creak like ours.
But inside you still dance in the rain
we never let fall for you.

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Backman Pierce @piercebackman1965

this hit me in a way i wasn't ready for. my grandma used to do that thing where she'd hand me the baby and just... watch. like she was seeing herself in me. i'm 40 now and i still don't know how to let someone hold me back. the part about the rain really got me.
9 days ago

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