Elegy

My mother's voice was loud and harsh;
She yelled a lot when she was angry.
Her face became a scary mask,
And she would shake her hand in my face--
         Just before she hit me.

I stood in front of her, silent, submissive,
Trying to stop sobbing and crying.
I could not cry when she was angry.
Crying made the punishment worse.
         I learned not to cry.

My mother's voice was soft and gentle;
Every night she would read to me.
Her face would glow from her warm smile.
Every night she would pray for me,
         And tuck me into bed.

I stood by her coffin, silent, submissive,
Trying to understand what death was.
I knew she was gone, and would never return.
I was alone, feeling hurt and scared.
         But I had learned not to cry.