I left my pain with my mother. Or rather, I should say, my mother took my pain when she left me. Left me with nothing but my body. A body that doesn’t feel pain. A body that doesn’t know how far its bones can bend before they are broken. A body that will starve before it feels hunger. My mother took herself, and my pain, and left me to be taken by an American family. I was given a new name and new clothes and a new country.
My mother left me and I was given a new mother. New Mother gave me peace in place of pain. New Mother did not take, only gave. I held New Mother’s gifts inside my body until it was full. People assume peace is light, like goose down. But peace can be heavy and hard, like river stone. People fight and kill for peace. I do not fight because I feel no pain and therefore do not have anything to fight for.
