Lessons at Eleven

 

At eleven, I learned that mothers

could write notes instead of speaking truth,

that love could grow so fragile

it couldn't hold the weight of fear.

 

The hospital smelled of disinfectant and dread.

Painted bright colours

to patch the places

where hope was bleeding through.

 

She emerged smaller from that white room,

marked by angry red lines

that spoke of violation and survival,

her body a battlefield

I was too young to understand.

 

On chemotherapy days,

she described her skin burning 

fire beneath the surface,

while I learned to walk on tiptoes

through a house made of glass.

 

She spoke of death like planning a vacation,

taught me to iron shirts for the men

I might need to care for,

placed the weight of family on shoulders

still learning to carry themselves.

 

At eleven, I became the keeper of unspoken fears,

the translator of medical words

that tasted like metal in my mouth,

the child who learned to smile while swallowing screams.

 

The treatments painted her chest

blue as bruises, red as sunburn,

and I heard her cry through walls

like a wounded animal.

 

Cancer taught me that women are not unbreakable,

but they bend without snapping.

That strength looks like getting dressed

when your body feels like fire.

 

I learned that at eleven, you can hold more than you should,

that mothers may have to forget their daughters,

that some responsibilities are inherited too early.

 

The scar healed,

but the knowing remained.

Life is fragile as paper,

love is complicated as medicine,

and sometimes the bravest thing is admitting you're still afraid

of what tomorrow might write on the desk of your heart.