The Eraser Cried First A Tribute to the Love That Corrects Without Judging

The first time I saw the eraser cry,  

It wasn’t because of the pencil’s mistake—  

But because she blamed herself  

For not being there to catch it in time.

You see, without the pencil,  

The eraser has no purpose.  

But without the eraser,  

The pencil has no second chance.

Every line drawn wrong,  

Every curve that faltered,  

The eraser took it all—  

Softly, silently,  

Until it wore itself down.

*“Come to me,”* said the eraser,  

*“When the world marks you in error.”*  

*“I’ll take your mess, make space again,  

So you can write without fear.”*

And the pencil?  

It kept returning—  

Broken, smudged, ashamed.  

But the eraser never judged,  

Only held on tighter,  

Taking each flaw as its own.

This is love.  

Not in flowers or grand gestures—  

But in gentle correction.  

In quiet protection.  

In the kind of care  

That says:  

*“Your mistake is not who you are.”*

And that’s what parents do—  

They erase with patience,  

Shape with silence,  

And carry our stains  

Just so we can stay clean.