The Fire and the Flannel
for my mother, and all the ones who chose to stay
by Astrid Saterlie
You didnāt give me life, but you gave me home ā and I never needed to know the difference.
You wrapped me in red and black plaid flannel, soft as your voice when the world was too loud, warm as your hands when mine shook with doubt. You taught me that being different wasnāt something to be hidden, but held.
You never asked me to change to fit in ā you just made more room for who I was becoming. In a world that tried to sand me down, you stood steady ā the anchor, the dam, not to hold me back, but to let me breathe.
When others mocked, you reminded me I was magic. When teachers failed to see me, you saw me anyway. When I turned toward art, you didnāt flinch. You said, āThis is where your soul lives. Build something with it.ā
And so I did.
Because you never taught me fear. You taught me compassion. Empathy. Books and blank pages. Mr. Rogers and unconditional love. You taught me that home isnāt four walls ā itās a presence. A person. A mother.
You didnāt have to choose me. But you did. And you do. Every day.
That kind of love rewrites bloodlines. It builds something stronger than DNA. It makes a life.
