Between Bruises & Blooms

At two in the morning,
my daughters would not sleep.

I had tried everything—

warm water
running over sleepy skin,
fresh pajamas,
medicine for aching gums,
the soft rituals mothers perform
when we are begging the night
to please,
please
be gentle.

But sleep would not come.

So I tucked them into the stroller,
wrapped them against the cold,
and carried our exhaustion
out the front door.

The town was almost silent.

Streetlights hummed
over empty pavement,
trees stood dark and watchful
along the road,

and above us—

God,
the stars.

Thousands of them.

Salt scattered across velvet,
tiny fires burning
in places my hands
could never reach.

And there was the moon,

a thin crescent
hung between the trees,

as though the night itself
had left a porch light on
for three tired girls
wandering beneath it.

I pushed my daughters
through sleeping streets,

their little bodies finally quiet
beneath the canopy,

and for a while
there was nothing to fix.

No laundry waiting.
No dishes.
No tomorrow demanding
to be prepared for.

Just wheels against pavement.

My hands on the stroller.

My babies beneath the stars.

And me,

somewhere between
exhausted
and enchanted,

remembering that motherhood
doesn’t always happen
in sunlight.

Sometimes
it is three in the morning.

Sometimes
love looks like walking
empty streets
because tiny teeth hurt
and nobody can sleep.

Sometimes
you leave the house
desperate for quiet

and accidentally
find the universe.

Tonight,

I took my daughters
out searching for sleep—

and instead,

we met the moon.