By Shem Onderi
How are you today?
You carried me. You birthed me.
Strapped to your back,
I spat without shame,
my mucus flying freely,
while you strained to feed me.
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Your eyes never left me
when I began to crawl.
I followed you everywhere—
to the river,
to the marketplace,
to the hearth where fire warmed the pot.
When you were away, I cried heavily.
By your side, I learned—
almost everything that would later save me.
Now I stand on my own,
away from your watchful eye,
fending for myself,
life brushing past my shoulders.
If only I could remain by you forever,
physically.
Mother, the world is unsafe,
unfair,
cruel to my feelings and my actions.
But how are you?
It has been long since I asked
how you feel about me,
about my life,
even as I age so quickly.
Perhaps your back aches
from the many chores you carried for me.
I know old age has caught up with you—
your strength fading,
your muscles wearing thin.
Your feet are weaker now,
your joints and veins more fragile,
so you may not walk fast enough
to save me
from life’s dangers.
Yet the inner you is renewed each day—
intact, strong,
and wiser still.
Do not forget me in your intercessions,
for I live within your life.
Your love endures.
So, Mother—
how are you today?
