The Hands That Raised Me

Does it matter who carried the burden?
Father or mother, both carved my path
with calloused hands and sleepless nights,
giving life to dreams I had yet to imagine.
Their struggles, woven into the fabric of my being,
cannot be repaid in coins or gestures.

Mother, rising with the sun before it knew its place,
her feet pacing to the rhythm of our futures.
She wrapped us in her silent strength,
a queen unseen, yet reigning in every corner of our world.
Her eyes held the promise of tomorrow,
even when today weighed heavy on her heart.

Father, awake before the birds dared to sing,
chasing shadows of opportunity so we wouldn't have to.
His hands built bridges over troubled waters,
though his own storms brewed in secret.
Leaving behind his comfort, his love,
he ventured into a city of struggle
just to lay the stones beneath our feet.

I love him more than words can tell,
but fear holds me quiet in his presence.
How can I repay a man who gave everything
when I have yet to fill the shoes he left behind?
Money, shoes, books, wisdom I thought was nagging—
now I see them as the roots of my being,
guiding me when I thought I walked alone.

He is the hero of my heart,
though I fail to say it often enough.
And in my deepest dreams,
I wish to make him proud,
to lead him to a place of peace,
where his battles are but memories,
and he can rest in the haven he built for us.

For now, I carry their sacrifices in my soul,
and pray my steps honor the paths they paved.

- Monny