Between Bruises & Blooms

There was a sliver
buried deep beneath your skin,
too big to ignore,
too sharp to pretend
it didn’t hurt.

Mommy was trying
to work it free,
careful hands,
tiny tears,
that awful kind of pain
you cannot explain
when you are still so little.

And in the middle of it,
you asked for me.

Call Aunty Chy.

Not after.

Not once it was over
and the worst had passed.

While it still hurt.

While Mommy was still trying
to pull the sharp thing
out of you.

You wanted my voice
somewhere in the room.

And I do not think
you will ever understand
what that did to me.

How sacred it feels
to be one of the names
a child reaches for
when the world hurts.

To be comfort
without having to touch.

To be safety
through a phone speaker.

To hear your little voice
and know that somehow,
in your small universe,

Aunty Chy means
I might be okay.

So call me, baby.

When there are slivers
buried too deep.

When knees bleed.

When nightmares come.

When something hurts
and Mommy is doing everything
she can to make it better
but you still need
one more familiar voice
to hold onto.

Call me.

I will answer.

Every damn time.