The Weight of Names
Somewhere, a mother teaches her daughter
to carry water on her head without spilling-
balance, she says, is everything.
In another country, a different mother
teaches her son to carry his name
without flinching when strangers mispronounce it.
We are all learning to carry something.
The refugee carries a photograph,
edges soft from touching-
proof that home was real.
The prisoner carries tomorrow
in the calluses of his palms,
counting days like prayer beads.
What if peace is not the dove
but the earthworm, turning soil,
making everything fertile again?
What if justice is not the gavel' crack
but the quiet hand that helps a stranger stand?
We build monuments to freedom
while forgetting freedom is built
in the small spaces between us-
the breath before forgiveness,
the moment we choose to listen
instead of turning away.
So here is my offering:
not grand words carved in marble,
but this-the admission that I am still learning
to carry the weight of your name,
your story, your right to be here,
as carefully as you carry mine.
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