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To whom shall we go?
A question we asked our mother each time life unfolded,
A question posed without an answer—
Mama, to whom shall we go?
I tell stories…
Stories about the places and times that shaped me,
Stories of the home I never had, of the things I wished were there,
And the things I wished we could keep.
Like the mat my great-grandmother laid on each day,
Sunbathing from dawn till dusk.
About the ornaments my grandmother kept in her room divider,
Especially that glass slipper that never fit—
Perhaps just a showpiece and a subtle warning that life isn’t a fairytale.
About all the things my mother couldn’t keep,
I tell stories of home.
Home…
Fragments in my mind,
Home…
I felt at home each time my mother knelt.
I felt at home each time she courageously took us along.
I feel at home when my mother smiles.
Home…
A recollection of all we’ve lost and never found.
I tell stories of the home I will have,
And all the things I would place in it.
— Monyane.
