The adults told us everything about growing up.
But they didn’t give us measurements though.
Didn’t tell us how many millilitres of salt water we’d cry.
Or how many minutes of sleep we’d lose.
Didn’t write down how many pounds per square inch the burden would be.
Or record how many feet a heart could leap to lodge itself in your throat when bad news came.
I watched my grandmother cook from sight alone.
Never used a teaspoon for her spices,
Or a cup for the sugar.
She lived her dishes the way she lived the tears, nightmares, weight and breathlessness.
Her generation are grey-haired and tired,
But strong because they swallowed the trials cooked for them.
They are wise because they felt their existence with sensitive hands.
And we, their bloodline, are dying because we’d rather quantify it.