Mothers are the home in which protect us during our early years

Carving our foundation before we even know the structure.

Fathers are the farmers whom plant their seed to grow beautiful, nessacary things.

Planting, growing, and eventually harvesting; caring for us in the same way the plants receive.

Houses get built, and they eventually settle.

Plants get born, and eventually harvested.

I, a seed from my father, but a mirror in my mother’s home

Wonder if the plants that make it through the germination process, or that the layers of concrete and plaster in which this house is built upon also feels the ache in my soul, the layers of growth benieth my skin.

I wonder if houses can feel when they’re abut to crumble.

I wonder if plants know the importancecy of them

I wonder if they know

My growing pains.