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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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for Hugh's birthday it took a while for you to spit out your first words: daddy. mummy. and when they did arrive, they were few and far between, the blooming of tanhuas, shoots that desperately wanted to germinate. and
i did not always have green fingers; i did not always know how to water you. not with my little stubby fingers that had only learnt to poke and shove, not with my lack of a cultivator’s tender patience. so you cried, your tears soft morning dew, beading beneath your beautiful, bulbous, almond eyes. i said your forehead was round and smooth like a fire hydrant; it was my crude articulation of a love i had yet to fully grasp. but your ways became familiar, then my own. your enduring fascination with green; like a plant’s indomitable will to grow, absorb, grow some more, and how you grew! in such fascinating and mysterious ways. some shunned you, said that you would not go far. in my world, the unenlightened were derogatory, sometimes cruel. a seasoned watcher of your ways, my veins boiled with rage. but no matter. your first words were always your roots, rooting for you: mummy tilled the soil day in day out, rain or shine, daddy built a cozy roof above us. and more: mama poured in fertiliser, gugu pollinated the flowers. and koko? no, that was not among the words in the core. brian. brian-- this root shall be intertwined with yours, in winter and summer. Comments are closed.
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May 2023
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