She Carried the Sky on Her Back

When I think of strength, I don’t think of iron or stone. I think of my sister.

Her name was Safiya, and she was born during the hottest summer our village had ever seen. The kind of heat that clings to your ribs and wraps around your breath. They say the sky was red when she came into the world — angry, beautiful, and wide.

She was the oldest of four. Our mother passed away when I was five, and our father… well, he left long before that. So it was Safiya who filled the space they abandoned. No one asked her to — she just did.

She was twelve.

She woke us every morning with the smell of warm roti and rosewater in our hair. She made sure our clothes were clean, even if hers never were. She packed school bags with care, wrote poems in the margins of her own notebooks, and whispered lullabies into the night when the power went out.

She stitched her dreams into the hem of our shirts — quietly, lovingly, so we’d carry them with us without noticing.

And when we grew tired or afraid, Safiya would lift our chins, point at the stars, and say:

“Don’t look down. The world is heavy enough. Look up.”

But you see, she never did that for herself.

She looked down. Always.

She watched the ground for cracks, for danger, for where we might trip. She carried groceries on her back and our fears in her hands. She learned to braid hair and pay bills. To cook, sew, defend, protect. She never let her voice rise — not in anger, not in pain.

But when she cried, it was quiet. Like rain on a roof.

I remember once, late at night, I saw her sitting in the backyard. The moonlight touched her face, and I noticed the curve in her shoulders. The way her back arched slightly forward — like she was holding up something I couldn’t see.

And that’s when I realized.

She was carrying the sky.

All our hopes. All our dreams. All our childhood.

It rested there — invisible to most, but heavy as sorrow. She wore it like a shawl, beautiful and burdensome.

And still, she smiled.

Years passed. We grew taller, louder, bolder.

Safiya stayed.

She didn’t go to university. She didn’t chase her own dreams. She took a job at a clinic to pay the bills. She worked mornings and read books at night, her eyes flickering over pages like a moth to a dying flame.

And one day, I asked her why.

She didn’t answer right away. She just looked up at the sky.

Then she said, softly,

“Some people don’t get to fly. But if I can hold the ladder, at least someone should.”

I left home a year later — scholarships, cities, choices I never thought I’d have. All because of her.

The day I left, she packed my bag with snacks, wrapped coins in cloth for emergencies, and kissed my forehead three times. Once for courage. Once for safety. Once for the mother we never knew.

I called her every week. Sometimes, just to hear her breathing on the other end. I’d tell her about my classes, my professors, the lights in the city that never turned off. She’d laugh and ask if I was eating enough.

I wanted to tell her that I missed her. That every time I saw a girl with strong hands and tired eyes, I thought of her. That every time someone said I was brave — I knew it was only because she taught me how.

But I didn’t know how to say all of that. Not yet.

Then one day, she wrote to me. A letter.

It said:

“Dear Little Star,

I may never reach the moon, but I see you shining.

And that’s enough for me.

Love always,

Safiya”

Now I live far away. I have children of my own. And when I tuck them in, I tell them stories of a girl who held up the sky. A girl who stitched her heart into the world and never asked for applause.

And when my daughter says, “Mama, I want to be strong,”

I tell her,

“Then be like your aunt.

Smile with your whole face.

Cry without shame.

And never be afraid to carry the sky —

as long as you let someone help you hold it.”