(12/30) Year Eleven: MANHOOD (A REPOST)



After
the phone call came,
my uncle looked at me
and said,

You're the
man of the house now,
you have to be strong
for your mother and sisters
.

So, at eleven years old,

I didn't shed a tear
when I saw my mom, eyes
leaking with pain,
calmly make arrangements
for my father's burial.

I didn't shed a tear
when my sisters
interchangeably
sobbed on my shoulders,
even though I could feel
their sorrow vibrating
through me.

I didn't shed a tear
at the wake or the funeral;

I just stood stoic
trying to map out
in my mind what exactly
does it mean to be a man?

That night, I remember going into the bathroom 
and crying uncontrollably into a towel, 
so no one would hear me.


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