The House That Raised Me

Kingston and Kingstown never agreed on anything, except how to raise me.
A Jamaican mother who could turn a proverb into a weapon and a warning in the same breath.
A Vincy father whose quiet said more than most men's shouting.
I was raised on lessons that didn't come from books.
I was raised on "watch how you carry yourself"
and "you better respect yourself before you ask anybody else to."
I was raised on hands that worked too hard to explain themselves,
and love that said "I love you" every single time,
then said it again in curry on a Sunday,
said it again in "call me when you reach,"
said it a third time in sacrifices I'm still uncovering 

Their voices don't argue in my head, they take turns speaking.
One tells me when to be soft.
The other tells me when enough is enough.
And somewhere between the two of them
is exactly who I am.
The house that raised me wasn't without cracks.
There were nights. There were silences.
There were things said and unsaid that I've made peace with.
But even the cracks let something in. 
They taught me that love doesn't require perfect people.
And that life is meant to be lived and cherished…
not left with, "If I did know."