My Translator
“Mom, they called my name I won.”
“Mijo, estoy tan orgullosa de ti, qué bendición.”
Her voice lifts when I tell her.
Like music in a language they don’t teach in school.
At the store, at school, at the doctor’s front desk
I become her mouth. I become her ears.
They ask her questions she can't answer.
I step in, twelve years old, speaking like a grown-up.
They see her silence,
but her voice resonates
a melody in a language unspoken.
Sometimes I wish they could hear
the wisdom she holds
in every word.
Well, this is my life.
And I’m happy.
But it’s a struggle too
being the voice for someone
who gave up hers for you.
But now
she orders at restaurants,
chats with my teachers,
says “thank you” without looking down.
She found her voice.
And I helped her build it.
Now we speak
side by side.
Copyright © Naima Ybarra-Fernando | Year Posted 2025
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment