My mother was 3 the first time she passed away.
“Passed away?” “Passed away?” “Only 3?”
In my culture, we don’t say died. We say passed away.
She passed again at 10 and 17.
Long before she knew
Women die a thousand deaths before they’re ever buried.
When we were growing up, she didn’t die.
But she hardened a little.
And softened a lot.
And she stood where she used to kneel.
And she wept and she wept.
That was my mother.
A joyful woman who wept.
A girl who died and lived to tell about it.
Your Voice Matters. You Are Welcome Here.
Little Ro welcomes thoughtful contributions, reflections and guest articles. If you have a perspective, experience or idea you would like to share, we’d love to hear from you.
If you or someone you know is living with the effects of trauma, you do not have to navigate everything alone. Our peer-support groups offer opportunities for connection, understanding and shared reflection. You can also explore our survivor resources for further information and support.
Help • Hope • Healing • Heard