Listen to this
I was the youngest in my home
the quiet
one who’d sit and roam
through thoughts too big for such small years,
a watcher shaped by laughter and tears.
My parents’ love once shared
one space,
then drifted slow, in time, to grace.
Two houses,
two goodnights to give,
and two new ways I learned to live.
But
even then, I came to see,
that family’s more than blood or tree.
It’s neighbours waving through the rain,
a teacher’s words that eased
the pain.
It’s cousins, friends, the ones who stayed,
the
makeshift homes that love has made.
It takes a village, that’s
the truth,
I’ve known it since the days of youth.
A web of hearts
that held me tight,
when things at home weren’t black or white.
And now I see, in every face,
how love wears forms we can’t replace.
Two dads, two moms, one parent strong,
a foster home where kids
belong.
A grandparent who starts again,
a chosen family — woman,
man,
and all who stand beyond the line,
that old world drew around
“divine.”
In CYC, I’ve learned to stay
with every story, come
what may.
Not fixing hearts, but walking near,
to listen close and
make it clear:
that every home, in all its ways,
deserves respect,
deserves its praise.
I used to think that love was one
a
single thread, a setting sun.
But now I know it moves and bends,
it breaks, it heals, it mends, it ends.
And even when it’s torn in
two,
the roots still grow, the branches, too.
So here I
stand: a child, now grown,
with many homes to call my own.
And in
each life, each bond I see,
I find the family that raised me.
And now I give what once was shown
a steady heart, a softer tone.
I build a village, hand in hand,
with those who hope to understand.
For every child deserves to see,
that love can bloom in all that
we be.
