The Work of Keeping

A poem about family exclusion, silence, and the person who refused to let us disappear.

My aunt looked through us.
My cousins followed her lead,
teaching me early
what can be ignored.

The room did not correct them.
No one ever did.

At the table,
plates passed by our hands.
Stories continued
without needing our names.

The trouble.
belonged to them.
Yet somehow,
we were the ones
expected to carry it.

I learned young
that blame does not need direction.
It finds the quiet place.
Silence delivering its lesson.

Exclusion was the only space offered.
Shaped like an apology
I was expected to give
for something
I did not owe.

You interrupted that pattern.
You said our names
before they could disappear.
You moved chairs.
You made room
where none was offered.

When you were there,
the table widened.
We were allowed
to take up space
without apology.

Now when we show up
there is no practiced hello,
only silence.

A silence that does not pretend.
A silence that knows
you are gone.

And without you,
no one bothers
to soften the room.

We stand where we always did,
only now
there is no confusion
about why.

I understand then
what your presence was doing.
Not fixing anything.
Just refusing
to let us disappear.

Without that refusal,
the truth settles:

We were never welcome.
You were.