Jen's Journal

I have my mother’s dainty hands that can barely
Support the heart on her sleeve. She puts on this
Tough facade but at night, when it is quiet and
She thinks everyone is sleeping, you can hear
Quiet sniffles coming from her bedroom.

She has loved four men in her life, and each
One of them has left her a smashed flower
On the sidewalk, once beautiful but now withered
And used. Three of those men planted seeds in her
That gave her five children and stretched out her hips
So she would be able to hold each one of us on them.

I admire my mother in this way, she never asked any of
Them to stick around to help raise us. My father was the
Only one who chose to stay.

My father was a fighter. He once lent money to
someone who couldn’t pay him back so he gave
him a baby pig instead. Dad accepted it,
brought it home on his back, and said he would
let it grow big and fat. He worked two full-time
jobs and swallowed his sadness when there
wasn’t enough to eat. Yes, he was kind,
but he was also a man.

When I told him about the first man who ever
touched me inappropriately,
he buried my accusations. Thanks to him I
learned how to argue only if I have evidence.
Thanks to him I learned to keep quiet if I don’t.

I have my father’s smile, but not his ability
to make people look past the smile into the
wounds beneath. He could lift the mood in a
room higher than the moon. This made it possible
to look past his lack of belief.