Hot Mess, Holy Code

I take pride in being a kind of riddle. A storm in silk, a mirror tilted just enough to keep you wondering. Too much, looking like the perfect sum of what can’t be solved. But today, after dhuhr settled in my bones.. a sweet and haunting thought curled in the air like bakhoor: I only get to be this way because my mama is still breathing. Even oceans away. 4,000 miles and the weight of the sky— her breath keeps my chaos from collapsing. She makes it safe to arrive as all of me. Not because the world agrees, but because she believes in my whole becoming. She never asked me to be small— only to carry myself with care. “If you choose to live wide open, do it with honor. Be responsible." kinda vibe. Because wild women aren’t always welcome. And soft ones bruise too easy. Still, she carved a path with her prayers and presence. And I followed barefoot, full of fire. She taught me to guard my joy like a secret recipe, to cry in the kitchen but laugh at the table. Beneath her feet and her feet only, is my reason. My hayati feels like honey and warning in the same breath. And I wonder— when her breath no longer shares this air, who will keep my edges from unraveling? What kind of beautiful ruin will I become without the echo of her yes beneath my no? For now, I walk through the world a coded hymn. Untranslated, but whole. A little mess, a little miracle. A mystery wrapped in time. Because somewhere, my mother still breathes.