pestering,
the language of children.
i asked for another story at bedtime.
“i will sing you a lullaby instead,” she said.
she could not hold a tune.
her voice would crack in places it shouldn’t have.
still, she sang.
and i always listened.
one day, i asked for a story again.
and again she said she would sing a lullaby.
i told her she broke the tune.
since then, i haven’t heard a story,
nor a lullaby,
from my mother’s tongue—
and i forget it.
the same way i forgot there was a last time
my mother held me in her arms.