My mom has an accent.
Every word she says
envelops you in a world
of rolling valleys and mountains,
and rows of flowers unfurled.
Her voice, carried by the wind,
follows the rhythm of the music
from her homeland.
Although her pauses leave gaps
in conversations of the promised land,
she dances and gestures
with every syllable.
Her English is coated in uncertainty
against a language unknown.
She will stop at nothing to ensure
that her voice never loses its quirk.
She stayed quiet for too long
only to be told that her voice
needed work. Her lips
may struggle with this language,
but my mom's accent tells
the story of her home,
a home laced with anguish and happiness,
a home where she used to roam.