Sorry Mama

I whisper “sorry” into the night, a trembling echo that finds your doorway, and every syllable lands on the cracked floor of a heart that once beat for two. Your tears are rivers that carve canyons in my chest, each drop a memory of empty plates, of you, starving, so I could taste tomorrow. I feel that hunger now, a hollow that no feast can fill. I’m out here, in the bush, chasing shadows, hunting for a future that seems just out of reach, but every rustle of leaves reminds me of your lullaby, every cracked twig a note from the song you sang. Don’t doubt me, Mama—pray for me, let your prayers be the wind that lifts my weary wings, let them become the rain that waters the seeds we plant, the sun that warms our hands when night feels endless. One day, I will break every curse that clings to our name, shatter every chain forged by poverty and fear, and turn every storm into a road that carries us home. I will carry the tree, its branches wide, its roots deep, and under its shade we’ll rest, finally safe. You were both father and mother, a double‑edged sword of love, and I, your child, will become the door you always guarded— a doorway to hope, to laughter, to a family whole again. So hold this promise, Mama.