My mother could have told me lies, when I approached with fascination, with a thousand questions that she answered with careful contemplation.

She could have spun a story, missing out the guts and glory, documenting my origin and my life just past one.

Instead she reasoned with me, and got down all level with me, and asked if I really had to know.

Now inquisitive young Chaardy, acted tough and really hardy, look his mum right in the eye and said “Go!”

And so my mother told the story, with redacted guts and glory, of what lead us to that point. So,

I sit here close to thirty, considering the theory, of how me or I would be different if I didn’t have to know.

And I’m glad my mother told me, about that brief moment of my history, and toss it in the trash: it isn’t me, he hasn’t won.

The past is in the past, and yes that’s a small part of it, but the future is exciting and there’s so much more to come.

And the more I think about, yes I could scream and shout it, I’m glad that she told me and I’m glad I asked my mum.

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