Mother's tongue

Your son tells me he's disappointed,
my father says
you never taught him Italian.
Pot Kettle Black, I think,
as you never spoke it to me.
Preferring I become 'un kangaroo'
jump into this strange jumble of sounds, teeth first.

I attempted to speak it to my Nonna, once.
Her eyes told me her stories, as each word suicided from my lips, i didn't try again.

And it took me the longest time
To realise words aren't always necessary As my son holds your hand, and I hold his.

Lisa