Clueless Ink

One fine day, I saw my mother praying, for me.

She wished that I would never bow my head when I didn’t want to,

Something she, as a woman, had to do too often.

She prayed so hard for it that her god must have listened.

But it took years for her to see what she had shaped:

A daughter who stood her ground, even in front of family,

Who fought for her freedom at every turn,

Who challenged the world, society, and even those she loved,

Hurting, yet unwavering, when they couldn’t understand.

Head held high, even in fear,

knowing love & acceptance would come only after the rebel years,

After she had earned enough to be honored, not whispered about.

At every step, the whispers reminded her: Think of those connected to you.

But mother, was this what you wished for?

Not walking through fire? Not breaking the molds?

Remember, this came from somewhere.

Mother was the one buying me things that weren’t conventional enough,

The one who taught me that traveling was a lesson in itself.

Mother, tucking away letters from my first love, saving them for laughter in later years.

And still, as I neared thirty, she took a turn,

Paranoia creeping in,

The rebel she once nurtured now unsettling her.

She wanted my head held high,

But with grace, with subtlety,

Not too loud, not too direct.

She had forgotten what she once wished for.

Why?

Because change is easy to dream of,

Harder to embrace when it stands before you,

Refusing to be softened.

Maybe even God smiled, knowing how it would unfold,

That the prayers she once whispered so fiercely

Would echo back in ways she never imagined.

In the end, society’s fear seeped into her,

Not loudly, not forcefully,

But in the quietest, most familiar way.

And maybe, just maybe, God whispered:

Be careful what you wish for,

Because real change doesn’t come with beautiful puzzle pieces,

Pieces you can neatly fit together, make sense of.

It arrives whole: unfamiliar, unshaped, demanding to be understood.