Mama Yangu

I don’t even remember your voice.

I don’t remember how it would crack when you’d raise it, telling you that you’ve shouted enough in your life.

I can’t remember your soft brown eyes that you’ve given me, it’s yellow hue that you kept wide open most nights

Waiting for your sons to come home.

I’ve forgotten how your hijab feels, the one I would swing my stumpy baby arms around when you picked me up in the morning.

The smell of your perfume is one I grasp at, it smelt like sweet sweet fruit,

Like the fruit we used to grow in the old house.

I wish I could remember your rough hands, filled with wrinkles that looked like paths on a muddy field that lead me home.

I’m sorry I didn’t call to say goodbye, I didn’t want to have to say it.

I also didn’t want to admit that I’d forgotten your number.

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