Part V · Reclamation
Blueprints of a Broken Home
My parents taught me
love was commitment—
not communication.
Break your hands,
drop to your knees,
let your partner
stand on your back
just to see
past the skyline—
even if they never do.
My father learned love
by gasping.
By cooking eggs at three
while his baby sister cried—
no mother in reach,
his hands too small
to matter.
My mother learned love
in a house of shadows—
men cycling in and out
until one stayed,
raised children not his,
taught grace.
But the walls still echoed
with words
never spoken.
My sister learned like I did:
we mistook promises for anchors,
climbed backs
for glimpses of greener grass
we never watered.
Our garden
grew beneath a city
we never reached.
And when I broke my hands—
no one caught me.
My back worn
from holding someone
who never looked down
to see.
I don’t know
what I’ll teach my sons.
But I pray it’s not this:
that love is pain.
That bearing it
makes you holy.
Marriage breathed
like a cross on my neck.
But I was never strong enough
to lift her up.
Maybe strength
is teaching love
where no one
has to break
to belong.