Birthright

Hey, Mom. I never told you this before, but...

You should paint again.

You should write again.

Somewhere along the way, your voice was smashed almost into oblivion underneath callous hands that didn’t know how to cherish you like you deserved. And, kneeling, you picked up and cradled those shards of yourself in your arms while you cradled us. And pieces of you fell along your journey forward trudging into the future to give us the best life possible. I’m sure you longed to have those pieces back but you left them behind so that you had more time to work, more time to give us things you thought we should have, not caring that while our smiles brightened yours dimmed, the watts carefully drained to power the brilliance of our dreams instead of yours.

You packed away your creativity—that once brought you such joy—like clothes haphazardly thrown in a suitcase then stuffed in a closet to be forgotten. Like treasured photographs accidentally left behind in a move, this part of you became lost, and I hear how decades later you still mourn it sometimes in a quiet voice during sleepy nights when you think no one is listening. But I’m listening, connected by crackling phone states and states away and connected by the shared blood pumping through our hearts, I’m listening.

Mom, we are older now, we are gone like sand in the wind wherever destiny takes us. You taught us how to strive for the stars, built our staircase throughout the galaxy to do so, and now it's time for us to reach a hand back and bring you here too to sit like a goddess on the crescent moon, lounging in a universe that is fully yours.

It’s time.

You should paint again.

You should write again.

Draw in brilliant yellows, color plucked straight from dreams of the shirt worn by your mother’s warm hugs. Paint in your favorite hue, red decorating canvas like autumn leaves. Create blue like alchemy, magicked from the oceans visited time and time again and the sky that has watched over you since birth. Laugh over beloved cocker spaniel tracking paint accidentally throughout the house while you chase him with outrage, anger waning as a warm memory replaces it.

An unlauded laureate divining words straight from your heart, syllables gently wrapping around each other to form the perfect stanza, allow recognition to envelope you. The thesaurus hiding in your brain begs to be released, to spin tales and messages that will be passed down for generations. Summon the strength of the hymns and stories our ancestors sang on slave ships as they were stolen from their homes. Rise. Rise like the sea, like the sun, and like buoyant air. By birthright you are a poet, the pen ordained you as so. Reclaim the creativity that life drained from you without care and without remorse. Stand triumphantly anew like phoenix song, reborn and baptized by your own growth, paintbrush and pen in hand. History remembers you even though it does not yet know you.

Hear this:

I want you to be happy. I want you to smile so wide that your cheeks hurt. I want you to create things for yourself again like you selflessly created life. Dance without care for who is looking, breathless with laughter. Spin unabashedly in the rain, wet hair plastered to your face but not quite hiding your happiness. Shine so brightly that everyone can’t help but to stand in awe of your brilliance and the beauty of your joy.

Mom, I must confess, I want you to live again.