In another life, my mother is a wildflower, growing freely in the cracks of a cobblestone street.
She soaks in the sun's warmth, untroubled and bright.
A glimpse of a life she never thought she'd have.
A gentle smile under a new sky, standing on sands not weighed down by the past.
she danced beneath the Parisian sky, light on her feet, her laughter echoing by the Seine.
No bills, no morning alarms, no little hands tugging at her skirt.
Just her heartbeat in sync with the world.
She once told me she wanted to see cherry blossoms in Japan, to try street food she couldn't pronounce.
Instead, she learned to chop vegetables perfectly, made lunches, ran errands, and carried more than she'd imagined.
It's strange how we think we understand pain, how it fills every corner of us, until we see it in someone else'es eyes and we realize the weight of a love that gave everything.
Even if it meant losing a piece of herself.
I see it when she hums a tune from her younger days, her eyes bright for a moment, like a candle flickering in the wind.
I wonder if she remembers the girl she was.. or if she avoids looking back, afraid of what she might find.
Is it fear? Or wisdom? This acceptance of loss?
She carries it with quiet grace, like an old worn coat.
She never talks about the places she dreamed of visiting, but sometimes, when she thinks no one is watching, she smiles.
And I wonder if i'm the weight she never let go of.
Or the anchor that keeps her steady.
I hold onto her dreams like precious keepsakes, but I know they aren't mine to hold forever.
I just hope that when she looks at me, she sees not what she missed, but what she helped grow.
A wild, untamed garden, still hers.
In another life, my mother is a wildflower.
But here, she was the root.
Strong, steady, holding up the world she built with her hands.
Now, I pick up the petals she's left behind, and carry them gently, hoping that someday, they'll bloom once more.