a question walks into my bedroom: what advice would you give to your daughter about life—about love.
i sit with it for a long time.
i had other lives, once.
i don’t hold much in my hands, now.
there are scars. they are old.
i do know this.
you can tell a lot about a man by the things he promises in the dark.
what he remembers in the light, is what you really need to know.
i don’t have a daughter, gave birth to a boy.
my hands are shaping a man.
at breakfast i tell him what i know, anyway.
— what i learnt on a dark road.
© Liezel Graham 2020.
Image by Oana Hodirnau.
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liezel graham 
[…] need a sharp blade called ‘acceptance’ and ‘this is what it was, but it isn’t anymore’. and now i go in search only of her in that bougainvillea-lined street. only her. and when i find her, i show her my hands, my palms pale pink—the soft of a baby’s […]
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