My Gift

It turns out, I'm still a little kid. The little kid who cries. The little kid who's afraid. The little kid who clings on to mom. The little kid who falls every time he runs. The little kid who gets bruises, wounds, scars--- patching band aids over it. Now I understand. I understand why She would leave me, while dropping my siblings off to school She didn't have enough. She would come back and bring Champorado. Spaghetti when she has enough. She would help me dress for school: putting socks over my feet, fix my imperfect uniform, give me kisses for luck. At times, I would cry when she drops me off. At times, I would cry with them, every time their parents drop them off. Most of the time, I would be very happy to see her there, standing, waiting for me. She would carry me when I didn't have the energy. She would carry me whenever I'm sick. She would carry me to show affection. She didn't have enough. She works hard every day. She works hard to keep the house clean. She works hard to keep the fridge full. She prays hard to survive. She prays hard for guidance. She prays hard for strength. She raised us with her own bare hands. She was our father. She is my Mom.