“Welcome home honey,”

A mothers open arms spreading cigarette allergens around,

I hold my breath and bitter resentment,

Enter her embrace,

the essence of her, covered by a vice that alleviates part of her suffering,

who am I to judge?

Survivor of violence people left unnoticed,

I didn’t go through that,

I just witnessed it,

Excuse me,

judgmental bystanders labeling my family as broken,

broken in what sense?

broken- you grew up in poverty,

broken- I didn’t think you would be so successful,

broken- your mom does live in a trailer,

correction- I grew with hunger,

correction- I didn’t see you as worthy of my investment so I didn’t take the time to help you out,

correction- my mom owns that trailer

Thank you very much for your ill concluded observations,

She may spend her paycheck on rent and cigarettes,

but she answers my phone calls every single time,

I wish I could say the same,

“Mother, How are you?”

a question often asked with underlying guilt on my behalf,

the knowledge of her well being, so clearly visible,

“I am doing well, but let’s hear about you?”

She hides her needs,

the hierarchy of knowledge has created distance between us,

education does not mean a lack of suffering,

my worth is not more than yours,

she shows me the room full of my awards again,

pride fills her eyes,

I  have a nice day with my mother.