celestials

We are all stars.

She said that;

We are all moons glowing through our own nights.

She whispered in my ears;

We are all suns in our own galaxy.

She never told me why;

Her face came clear to me now. The hard lines melting into soft, familiar wrinkles. Chocolate brown irises stranded in a crystal blue sea. Lion’s hair springing past her oil and gel, only to be smoothed over by her frail hands. Hands meant to carve and create. Her muscles were worn from usage, yet her smile sung the stories of her childhood. She was the strongest person I knew.

But it didn’t take long for her to disappear like the others. Slowly fading away, a ghost of who she once was. The life gradually seeping out of her eyes, the once clear and calm ocean plagued by sudden fog and storm. Her smile fading, her memories forgotten. 

I never forgot.

The echo of her hands toying with my hair, and t. Twisting it into an elaborate bun. Guiding my inexperienced hands through the process, teaching me how to braid. It was one of the few things I could control. The feeling of hair slipping through my fingers was one of bliss. Each singular strand was small, weak. But together, the styles were infinite. Maybe that’s why we liked it so much.

I felt the pain everyday. Each hour a new stake slipped into my heart. Each minute brought new memories through a different lens. Joy, depression, anger, I’ve felt it all. But never alone. In every story of my life, she was my hero. But the hero of one story might never be the hero of another.

Mama

Her story was different. She fought herself on every step. Every decision. Not trusting who she was. Grappling with insecurities, she saw the darkness in herself. She saw the danger. She was the villian. 

When she fought through the divorce, my mama was never lost. She stood iron strong. My own boulder to lean on. All mine.

But on her final bed, her final rest, my mama’s strength crumbled at last.

“The devil’s calling me,” she cried, weakly thrashing against my arms. “I have sinned and am now paying”. Ocean eyes brimming with rain peered up at me. I propped her up against my arm and slowly stroked her back. The hair that was once rich as custard was now reduced to the dustcrumble cookie of the pie. I delicately fingered it, wscared of breaking the last pieces of her childhood. Weaving it slowly into a braid, murmuring calming sounds under my breath. Her movements were stuck in molasses and her breathing grew softer.

“Each story is different, my child.” she mumbled. “I don’t think you know mine.”