Between Bruises and Blooms

They ask me

why I keep going.

Why I still answer every email.

Why I still attend every meeting.

Why I keep collecting certificates,
signing papers,
showing up,
checking every box
they place in front of me.

Because they think
I’m chasing a court order.

They don’t understand.

I’m chasing two little boys
who still call me Mom.

Every parenting class

is another step
toward their bedrooms
being filled again.

Every affidavit

is another mile
between us
that I am trying to walk.

Every supervised visit

is another reminder
that love
sometimes has to wear
a visitor’s badge.

They read my life
like evidence.

I live it
like absence.

There are shoes
that should be
by the front door.

A laugh
that should echo
down the hallway.

Two goodnight hugs
missing
from every evening.

People tell me
to be patient.

As though patience
isn’t something
I’ve already carried
for years.

I’m not waiting
for justice.

I’m not waiting
to be right.

I’m waiting

for Emerson
to run through my front door.

For Theo
to leave toys
all over my living room.

For the sound
of “Mom!”
to come from somewhere
other than my memories.

I’m waiting
for ordinary mornings.

School lunches.

Arguments over whose turn it is.

Bedtime stories.

Laundry.

Chaos.

Home.

Because that’s all
I’ve ever wanted.

Not to win.

Just to hear,

“Mom, we’re home.”