No cradle rocked my earliest breath,
Only the hush of empty rooms where echoes learned my name.
No lullaby to stitch my soul to home,
Just the distant hum of strangers’ care and the cold tilt of morning light.
At three, the world’s door closed behind me,
Its click a verdict I could not understand,
And cancer’s hand led her to St. Peter’s gate—
Her fragile fingers slipping mine,
A mother’s goodbye before I learned to ache,
Her last smile burning on my lips like a promise I would never keep.
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