You held your sorrow so carefully.
Carried grief as though you were
always aware of the weight.

They will say your death was necessary.
Smooth it until it fits neatly inside the pages of history.
But I am a mother, and I know better.

I have fed my children with my hands.
I have felt their hearts beating inside of me.
Small. Relentless.
I know all about the quiet ritual of sacrifice,
how it begins and how it becomes
almost ordinary to give pieces of yourself away.

They will say you were brave.
You were.
But bravery does not absolve the cruelty of the ask.

Mother to mother, Celaabi.
I wish I could come to your room to find you.
Give you freshly cooked fishcakes pressed into your hands.
Sit with you a moment, two mothers simply talking.
Sharing a moment where nobody needed anything from us at all.

I will remember you forever.

Penned by my hand on the 8th of Aeguary, in the year 993 AF.