Umma and I have an understanding of sorts—
we must have shaken hands on it when I was in the womb—
that even if she lied, her presence would be honest.

I always feel the lie,
the ease in our conversation sputters
to a halt.
Our backs are stiff and straight like
we are leaning on double-edged swords.
It is precarious
to acknowledge the untruth in the other,
so we choke on the air between us, hold our breaths.
We must have shaken hands on it when I was in the womb—

I remember coming home from school
to find her on the floor, legs neatly beneath her,
and as she recounted the way her youngest sister died,
her hands were busy at work with something
unimportant but distracting enough
for her voice to hide the pain
that her body made clear.
We must have shaken hands on it when I was in the womb—
I sat there
cradling my backpack instead of
her broken heart.

I remember the way she screamed
and the next second, my eyes found the tree,
and him
and the noose.
And the leaves broke her fall and
wiped away her tears,
while I stood and watched from a distance.
Only when the man walking his dog found us
and told me to comfort my mother
before dialing for help
did I touch her.
Umma and I have an understanding of sorts.