13.11.24
One night, in the stillness between our laughter and longing,
I asked, with an ache —
Who tends to you?
Who waters your roots?
You paused, the way only you would pause
when the question is not about tasks
but tenderness.
And then, that smile
that always comes before your honesty:
“I don’t believe in God — But I’ve borrowed my father’s truth:
Help yourself, so help you God.”
You spoke it like a vow
not to a deity,
but to the earth you keep tilling,
to the lives you hold dear.
You tend to yourself, you said,
and Clemence tends to the heavy lifting.
You did not mention
the weight behind your eyes.
You did not mention
the softness you refuse yourself.
And I, holding that answer like a bruise,
wanted to offer my hands
as balm.
As one who kneels beside
the man who forgets he, too, is made of flesh.
So I said nothing.
I only reached for you,
the way the sun reaches for the garden —
not to claim it,
but to remind it:
you deserve light, too.
– Lele
Lele Muthali 