Wearing My Mother's Disbelief

Do you remember the day I came out?

Thankful for the silence that broke,

Do you remember your first secret?

The hidden treasure box in your young heart?

You say I look nothing like you now,

I fear I look nothing like you now.

Traditional son turned eclipse.

How to wear your mother's bindi?

I go to my room to touch that tiny red dot,

somewhere no one can find me.

I must wear it like you wear disbelief on your face.

Your mother is a woman,

And women like her, are bound—

Bound by ropes of tradition, tightly knotted.

And you are a man, but also not just a man,

Bound only by your own, winding truth.

Now, you don't know

How to carry your mother's bindi,

How to echo her laughter,

Or how to trace the lines on her aging hands—

Without feeling like an erased draft of her dreams.

My bindi is my pride,

invisible on my forehead,

but glaring in your eyes.

Though miles away, we sit at the same table—

Me, my invisible bindi, your visible disbelief.

Mothers like you,

Sons like me,

Cannot be contained.

In traditions, or disappointments.