When you see her, tell her her daughter is tired but standing.
Tell her the nights are long,
and sometimes morning arrives without answers,
but her child still wakes up hopeful.
Tell her she is grateful
for the hands that have held her through this season.
She feels them every day,
even when guilt dances on her face
and she doesn’t know how to ask for rest.
When you see her, tell her I am still building, quietly.
Tell her I have not given up yet.
Because soon,
we will eat at a table without worry.
When you speak to her, ask her to go on her knees a little longer,
for us,
for me.
Remind her I am kneeling too,
calling her name
even when mine feels too heavy to say out loud.
Tell her she will live her answered prayers soon.
She will smile without forcing it,
and be happy without explaining too much.
Tell her those who doubted her
will watch her name rise.
When you see her, tell her her daughter is not okay,
but she is trying to be.
Tell her I am still here.
Still becoming.
Nancy Atieno's Notes 