My mother’s prayers adorn my neck like a rosary; she begins to pray in my name and moves to pray for my father, herself, and the family.

With each bead that follows, she carefully strokes them with words that come from the deepest part of her heart. She is filled with many words that describe me, words that edify me, words that quote moments I go astray, and when I return again like the prodigal son.

In each decade, she whispers my name with prayers that revolve around me; she perspires in the process; blocks of sweat building up on her forehead while her hands and mouth are shaky but she holds firm to the words and to the prayers for me.

She has no realization of the things around her as she prays for me; her mind buried in the sweetness that comes from mentioning my name at every step. Her prayers like a blanket cover me even when I become so parched like a dry, weary land without water.

My mother’s prayers are like a samurai sword; they cut through barriers and slice through even the toughest of problems. I am the true evidence of my mother’s prayers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Anuja Tilj on Unsplash