Illumination

I beam at her, my mother. I am twelve. The sunlight shines through our frayed beige curtains and gleams and glints up and down her auburn hair. My smile must reflect her beauty, I think. I smile harder. This home is my sanctuary. My mother, the protector. “Thank you, Jesus.” She whispers. Taking a break from her making of home and family, she praises her Christ. My Christ. Our Christ. The Man who she says gives her kindness, respect, patience, and love. He must dwell inside for her to live this way.

She still struggles though. She cries when I cry and hurts when I hurt. And she must cry by herself. I would hold her hand through the tears. I am twelve and strong. Not as strong as her or my father or my Christ. Yet, I am strong. I feel old, but I beam at her, my mother, and I am twelve again.