We were taught silence like Sunday hymns.
Toughen your skin until it gleams, unbroken.
Swallow grief whole without tasting its sting.
Fold rage into corners no one cleans.
A legerdemain of emotions, neat and hidden,
like unpaid bills under the kitchen jars.
They told us, feeling is fine, just function.
Turn your fear into a tool for the day.
Still, my mother peeled potatoes while crying.
My father mowed lawns with fury in stride.
We lit candles for joy without lighting ourselves.
We mourned loudly, but inside our own ribs.
The trick was mourning, not stopping for it.
The art of existing anyway, despite the ache.
We learned to feel and still get things done.
But we never quite learned to feel aloud.