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In the beginning

I am birthed from

                    the remnants of your room and the silence of your space, I am made to be a soundboard, loud enough for our father to hear and know that your bedroom is occupied. The house is silent and I have become what he says are the nimble paces around the floors – there is life when he sees my footprints on the surface.

I am pieced and weaved together

                    through the loss of a body. Abundant enough to replace your flesh and bones, because he needed something to hold on to, something to call and baptize, and perhaps that’s the reason why he has christened me through you—he calls me by your name every so often.

I am the miracle

                    our father coveted, and through us, he has found a way to shape his hurt.  Because for him, to live is to create life—to refill spaces and reconstruct faces. To witness the resurrection of your existence.

But my birth breathes rest:

a child,

a woman.



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