Maria Guadalupe (Charles) Rodriguez

Madre, your name still warms the air,
a soft mija stitched into my days.
Though you are gone, you’re everywhere—
in candlelight, in prayers, in grace.

Your hands were home, your voice was bread,
your love a river, steady, wide.
Now I carry what you said
like rosary beads deep inside.

Sleep, Mamá—my heart will keep
your lullaby, your light, your way.
And when I miss you most, I’ll speak
to you in Spanish, and you’ll stay.

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