My speech is written
by my pen on white paper.
Years ago I walked under the warm, hot sun of summer to face the challenges of a newly divorced woman with a young son.
My heart is a library of stories.
Borrow a story. Empty my shelves.
Read every one of me. Judge me
by my poems. Ask me your questions.
That winter was cold and icy. Your room was dark even with the small lantern, but you and grandfather brightened the surroundings with your kindness, stories, and the prayers.
When I wash the dishes,
scrubbing each plate and glass,
I wish I could clean
the destiny of the unlucky couple.
I am a girl of a different time, and times have changed.
I cannot live like my grandma did. She was not for herself.