Still Her Weapon

They refused to lie in the soothing arms

of early morning’s sleep. They balanced their overweight bodies

on their grounded feet and walked to the kitchen like shrewd kids on a mission;

working in a tango to make peanut butter sandwiches

and warm up water for me.

My dad was my favourite human. I bragged to everyone who laid

their ears in a golden plaited tray of how in years to come

the man who would put a ring on my finger

would have to be my dad’s doppelgänger.

My mom, she challenged my oppressors to battles and

won my wars without yielding a sword. Love was enough

weapon for her. Those days feel like centuries ago.

Or perhaps, nostalgic memories of moments that never were.

Few betrayals later, mom is in a lifelong combat with dad and

I am still her weapon because if my dad were oxygen, I would never breathe again.