Mother
A beacon of love and understanding, come, indulge in the tales of my untraveled journeys, bring forth red ink, the hue of life's essence, ink that mirrors the pulse of existence, vivid and real.
Mother, run your gentle fingers through my hair, for my soul yearns to wander, to explore the unknown, my mind, a vessel of memories not yet lived, thirsty for the promise of discovery, longing for the open road.
When you return, ascend the steps to our abode, each one a testament to the rhythm of our lives, I will learn them by heart, as I yearn to learn the world, and upon your return, I will sit by your side.
As you sew, I will weave tales of travels, some etched in reality, others born of imagination, both painted with the same words, in poetry and prose, a fusion of the tangible and the intangible, a dance of dreams.
Mother, bind your hands to mine, in a firm knot, for I wish to be everything within these walls, like the sturdy table, a reflection of our home, a symbol of togetherness, of shared memories and joy.
Lay your hand upon my head, and it becomes truth, a touch that embodies eternal longing, a bond that transcends time and space, in your presence, I find solace, in your touch, I find home.
Copyright © Beatriz Esmer