There are times when it is easier to say things in a foreign language,
In a tongue so different from your own but sharpened to perfection by those around you.
I’ve only heard my mother say she loves me in an accent.
Apologizing in the same manner, grappling with the syllables,
Tells me happy birthday with the ease of a tongue twister twirling itself into a knot.
Never have I ever heard the whisper of her own country’s pride.
Never allowing herself to be enamored with fun,
Never full of a laughter that echoes through the burning walls around us,
That she forgets which country she stands.
So, when my mother tries to tell me something otherwise painful,
She tells it to me in a language we both share,
Standing in the country belonging to neither of us.
As a reminder, even here, we can start again.
Even if it means killing off the parts of ourselves we need the most.
Even if it means understanding,
We can never go home.
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