My mother tells me to smile often, 
rain doesn’t last and snow eventually melds. 
She assures me that demons wither when the sun soars, 
I just have to survive till the morning.

My mother insists that I keep praying,
the car has to park and the road eventually halts. 
She assures me that God surfaces when the moon leaps,
I just have to survive another night.
 
I fasten my seat belt, and step on the pedal,
my mother’s shadow crams the passenger seat. 
Her voice echoes through the windows,
“Drive safe.”


I slow the car for her, 
look both ways for her, 

smile for her, 
pray for her, 
stay safe for her. 

My mother tells me to stay safe, 
dead people can’t talk and broken mothers never heal. 
She assures me that sovereignty accompanies agony, 
I just have to survive.