The Language of My Mother by Noor ul Taba

The Language of the My Mother 

motherhood—

i didn’t understand

until amma stirred lentils

burning with fever—

hands steady,

voice tight with worry

about whether i had eaten.

they say:

a woman becomes

a mother

when she births.

i say:

she becomes

when she stops choosing

what she wants

& memorizes

what i need—

asks only:

what did you eat?

every day.

for years.

her love never said i love you—

only leftovers.

peeled oranges.

boiled eggs wrapped in foil

for journeys she wasn’t on.

Folded into:

call me when you reach,

and take an extra shawl—it’s cold out.

she loved in survival.

in checklists.

in not sleeping

until she heard the key

in the door.

grief—

never loud.

just back pain.

just cold plates.

forgetting

to sit.

she taught me

that silence is heritage—

that daughters

learn the weight

of worry

like mother tongue.

handed down

like recipes

& rosaries.

some days—

i flinch at the gas cylinder.

save grocery bags

like they might save me.

ask too many questions

& call it love.

& some days—

i see her

move in the kitchen

like prayer—

measuring nothing,

but always getting it right.

gentle.

ritual.

unseen.

she does not want

to be missed.

just witnessed.

some days,

i sit on the floor

crying into kitchen towels—

holding warm rice

like a secret prayer.

asking God

how to be

this soft

& still survive.

& i remember:

she didn’t know either.

she just did.

& maybe

that’s what motherhood is—

not sainthood.

not sacrifice.

just:

showing up with

cracked hands.

too-full hearts.

again and again—

until someone finally sees

how holy that is.

—Noor ul Taba