for the mother who is a shadow of herself.
for 600-second shower vacations.
for forgetting how to be alone together.
for forgetting how to miss each other.
for Tuesday morning park walks & blanket fort architecture that has lost all luster.
for laughter that could shatter windows & screams that could do the same.
for coffee that’s gone cold while you argue your child back to their laptop.
for all the times they didn’t see you cry; and for all the times they did.
for the resentment you feel that scares you to death.
for the love you feel that keeps you alive.
for your children being the ones to wake you instead.
for the guilt you harvest for falling to pieces.
for the memories you pray you’re making.
for not knowing how you’re going to do it; then doing it anyway.
no solutions here.