We promised each other things.
On the phone in tears I vowed,
I'll finish school first.
And once, amused by your solemnity -
I won't cut off my hair again.
You only promised me one thing my whole life.
"When is your time, is your time."
It feels like my time, my Mama.
This morning, chartreuse butterflies swarmed the empty lot,
led me along the country road, past the slum gully,
onto the main, then shrank back.
The morning eased down, I drove ever so slowly,
wanting to see them for the rest of the day.
Reaching my palm out the window, my skin sidled
up to breathe your mist.
It is my time Grandma.
My heart still bleeds, but with this morning's blessing,
it will beat to the sound of our drum,
as we make our home with brightly coloured wings
signalling our presence to each other.