Song Underwater

I wrote you a song underwater, where the sound never asked to be understood, only felt. It was heartache, like the hush you always gave me, rippling a lullaby I sang to myself when your hands were full of something louder than love.

Beneath the waves, I told you I loved you, not in words, but in the movements and actions I surrendered a heart of silence and kept the unspoken between us.

You didn’t know that every time I swam deeper, it was not to escape you, but to remember the parts of me you couldn’t hold.

I saw your sorrow cloaked in survival, your gentleness buried beneath the waves that drowned me. You called it mothering. I called it mourning.

There were days I hated the reflection of your shadow in my heart. Still, I shaped my heart to sing that of unconditional love where I could’ve carved bitter waves of grief.

If you ever hear this song, may it reach you not as blame, but as forgiveness. I was drowning in the unspoken hurt for years, but today, I let the truth rise, bubbling up from my heart like new light, breaking the ocean’s ripples.

Mother, I forgive you not because I should, but because I can. Because my voice deserves to surface in understanding. And so do you.