It Takes a Village

They say it takes a village to raise a child. 

I didn’t know mine until my father died. 

He left silence so loud, 

a hollow space nothing could quite fill. 

But my village rose–

arms outstretched, hearts cracked open–

to hold the weight he left behind.

The women gathered, 

soft with sorrow, fierce with love. 

They became what I lost–

mending the story of daddy’s little girl 

with a thread spun of strength and grief. 

They cradled me like a fragile thing 

and pieced me back together, 

each one pressing a part of herself into the gaps. 

My village came 

as women who had lost men too, 

who had already learned to carry both rage and resilience. 

They were always the fathers 

the world never expected them to be. 

They refused to let me disappear 

into the hole death dug. 

Instead,

they broke their walls

and handed me the stones–

so I could build my own. 

It doesn’t just take a village to raise a child

It takes a village to raise a woman.