Last Night You Called Me Mama

Last night you called me Mama.

Like always.

Like forever.

But the sound was rounder,

sharper somehow—

as if your voice had swallowed a year

without asking me first.

I didn’t say anything,

just nodded,

but inside I whispered,

“Don’t grow out of that.”

You’re shifting.

Tiny revolutions wrapped in juice-stained pajamas.

You zip your coat now.

Ask to do it yourself.

Say “I got it” with a pride

that slices through my heart like sunlight through blinds.

I cheer.

I do.

I clap and smile.

Because I’m supposed to.

But grief hides in the small things—

the way you don’t need help with your shoes,

how you wipe your own tears now

without reaching up for me.

They said it would go fast.

They were wrong.

It goes faster.

And I didn’t know

that love could feel like

both holding on

and letting go

at the same time.

So I’ll bottle this moment—

your voice still soft,

still saying Mama

as if it’s both question and answer.

One day you’ll say Mom,

and that too will be beautiful.

But it won’t be this.

And this…

is everything.