The Penelope Review

If you catch my tears, 
you will find them heavy, 
like the water in basins you carried 
from the village well at dawn, 
your shadow stretching across the red earth. 
You were young then, 
the air cold against your hands, 
your arms taut from lifting. 
You carried water not for yourself, 
but for others—always for others. 

You may say I have been cruel, 
that I left too soon. 
I only remember the quiet— 
the cloth laid flat on the ironing board, 
the hiss of steam rising to meet your breath. 
I watched from the doorway, 
and later, from farther away. 
I don’t remember the tune you hummed. 
I only remember the iron’s weight, 
how it softened the creases, 
and the quiet that settled after. 

I have inherited everything from you, Mother— 
the brittle knuckles that ache in winter,
the silence that sits between breaths, 
the way I can stand in a room 
and let its stillness hold me, 
as if nothing else matters. 
This is what you gave me: 
a quiet that carries its own weight, 
a stillness I still can’t let go. 

You once spoke of a river— 
how it rose each spring, 
swallowing the lower fields. 
The bridge slick with moss, 
its wood bending beneath your steps. 
I see you there, crossing alone, 
your skirt wet at the hem, 
your hands open to the wind. 
You never told me what lay on the other side, 
only that the river was stronger than fear. 
I imagine those fields now,
their edges blurred with floodwater, 
their stories washing away with the tide. 

When the day comes 
that you no longer nourish me— 
when your hands can no longer till the earth 
or tend to the weight of what we shared— 
I will go to the garden 
and find what you left: 
the old tin watering can, 
its spout heavy with rust, 
its handle bent but sturdy. 

I will plant nothing. 
I will sit in the tall grass, 
listening for the echoes of your voice 
among the branches you pruned too late. 
The buds will fall, as they always do, 
andI will wonder if you felt this way too— 
watching the seeds scatter beyond your reach, 
knowing some would never bloom. 

Mother, this is the moment of parting. 
If you see my tears, 
let them sink into the earth. 
They will find the seeds 
you planted without even knowing. 

Mother, this is our moment: 
a pause that stretches 
like air just before the rain. 
No breaking, no sharp edges— 
only the quiet, 
the sound of your footsteps fading 
as I turn away. 

I leave you, 
but not for long. 
I will cross the bridge you once spoke of, 
linger for a moment, 
long enough to feel the moss beneath my feet, 
long enough to hear the river hum. 
But the current will always call me back, 
as it once called you.

Hanna Han is an emerging writer whose work primarily explores mother-daughter relationships from a feminist perspective. Her writing often features whimsical imagination and sharp, humorous emotional insights. She serves as an editor and a staff reader at Ember, Adroit Journal, Polyphony Lit, and Karios Review. Her works can be found in Fourteen Line, Karios Review, among others.