Four Warm Walls

I mother within four warm walls. 

Rain falls as I stir peanut butter into oatmeal. 

We stay dry. 

Every morning my daughter asks me what we’re doing today and not once has my answer been merely— survive. 

Not once have I wondered what will become of my son. The pink of his skin will not return him to me bruised, bloody, or broken. 

Not once have I wondered if my daughter will receive an education. Her country will not keep her from it. Will not take away her value, not in that way. 

Not once have I heard a bomb fly overhead or ran under a night sky on fire. Not once have I gone to bed hungry or gone without to give to my children. Not once has fear for my life kept me awake. 

I mother within the four warm walls of privilege. 

And I have no answers to my own questions, no answers to the doubt cloud swirling my vision.

So I do the only thing I know to do—kneel and weep with, weep for, the mothers beyond these four warm walls.  

*Originally seen on Instagram

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