Kingsley Okafor
2 min readDec 2, 2021

Life reminds me of drunken nights,
You never really remember
how offbeat you might have been -
only the songs, who you were with,
how loud you sang.

I saw a picture of you and her,
holding each other,
smiles, light and toothy,
too wide to have known
responsibility, judgment,
or life itself.
It felt like spring.

My mom used to buy
a little jar of honey -
mostly for tea,
Or to spoon over fluffy biscuits
on drowsy Sunday mornings.
She could never open the jar;
face grimacing with effort.
“Hand me that towel,” she’d say
And she’d cover the lid,
Glass palmed and pressed to her hip
Trying to twist metal cloaked in cloth
for minutes, to no avail.
“KC,” she’d finally say, “you’re a big boy…open this.”
I would close my eyes
Let the metal sink into my palm
And twist.
It would finally pop open,
and I would hurriedly twist the lid off
handing the jar to her.

The steam from the biscuits
had slowed,
the tea was now warm.
I always wondered why she didn’t just
hand me the jar from the beginning.
I would’ve made sure she had her honey,
anything sweet,
as soon as she wanted it,
but I think she always imagined she could be strong too.