Between Bruises & Blooms

There was a version of me
who couldn’t imagine this.

Not because this life
is glamorous.

God, no.

There are cups
in every room.

Tiny socks
with no surviving partners.

Crumbs
in places crumbs
have no business being.

Someone always needs
a snack.

Someone is yelling
from another room.

A cat
is almost certainly
doing something illegal.

And somewhere
beneath a pile
of children’s clothes
is a laundry basket
I haven’t seen
since Tuesday.

But listen—

there is laughter here.

There are little feet
running toward me.

There are boys
whose voices
are changing
faster than I am ready for.

Girls learning words,
learning balance,
learning the world
will catch them
more often
than it lets them fall.

There are cats
sleeping at our feet.

There are books
stacked beside my bed.

Poems born
at impossible hours.

Photographs
of ordinary afternoons
I already know
I will someday ache for.

There is coffee.

There is rain.

There are mornings
when everybody
is safe beneath one roof.

Once,
I thought surviving
would feel dramatic.

Trumpets.
Victory.
A final battle.

Instead,

sometimes survival
looks like standing
in the kitchen
at thirty-one,

cutting sandwiches,

while your children
argue in the next room.

And realizing—

Oh.

I made it.

I made it
all the way
to ordinary.