The Signs, The Symptoms, The Sinking Ship My aunt had recently commemorated her fiftieth birthday by getting a tattoo, something contrary to her prudish and inhibited nature. It was to symbolize her belated rebellion against what was deemed normal and…
For my friend and brother
We don’t raise our children
to mourn the loss of them.
We don’t love them wholly to watch the life vacate from their bodies and ascend beyond our reach.
We don’t raise them to lower them into the cold cavities of the earth and see them no more. We don’t hold them at our breast or carry the breadth of their bodies on our chest to be robbed of their embrace.
We watch them age,
so that we may experience the fullness of their maturation and witness the formation of their youthful imaginations.
We raise our children to love and be loved; to be reflections of Love; the Love that is, was, and ever will be.
We, the village that cradles them, the crowns that bow and summon the guiding beam of our God and forefathers, We raise our children so that they may have life in all of its fundamental rights and concessions, that they may create something better with it than did we.
We raise them
to bury us.
The reverse is cause for lamentation.