I came to understand why a trans woman living alone produces unique problems. Who would be there for comfort when the tears come? Usually, the answer is the occasional counselor or — no-one, except, for the voice of Mum from her grave,
“Never mind my baby, have a nice cup of tea with me, and we can talk; then I can read this poem to you:
Some years ago, a mother bore a boy
A child’s mind, as you know, is always society’s toy.
My boy tried in vain to fit the mold,
but to his true self, we were blind.
A few of us can be so bold
to make gender self-unfold
A struggling female spirit
was desperate to be free.
You tried so not to hear it
but knew that you were she.
No longer lay your head sedated
on a pillow damp from crying,
You have been reincarnated
without ever trying.
Then I will hold the baby who once used to be in my arms, and I can know he was my daughter.”
