I know there is a disease that comes with motherhood.

A disease that softens the heart, makes it small and tender.

Because we learn the comparison,

when the world is no longer ours,

but belongs wholly to our children.

There is this disease of being in one body

with other mothers,

those who lost,

those who survived but are not alive,

those stripped of their motherhood,

stripped of their sun and moon,

their worlds made meaningless.

And soon, their children’s faces

will echo the faces of our own.

That’s why every word spoken by a mother is a prayer,
and that prayer echoes to the seven skies.

That is why we carry this heavy heart wherever we go.

And maybe women are made of creatures so strong it is otherworldly.
Maybe we were never meant to be simple, because we were made to heal.

No one try to save the world without facing the guilt of their own,

Without tears, shed, in the lonely alleys.
because in the end, every child,

In some way, our child.