Mother

I am the mother
I once whispered I might become,
Not flawless — but warm,
Not certain — but steady.

Yet not the one he needs —
and that is life,
perhaps.

I forgive the hands that shaped me,
cracked, human, trying,
doing the best they could
with maps drawn in fading light,
as I have —
as I do.

And one day,
when time has softened my edges,
my sons will trace my shadows
and call it love,
and forgive me
for being human too.