Between Bruises & Blooms

I made it
while the house was quiet.

Steam curling upward
like one small thing
that belonged
only to me.

Then someone woke.

Someone couldn’t find a sock.
Someone needed breakfast.
Someone needed help,
a hug,
a drink,
an answer,
my hands.

The tea waited.

I reheated it once.

Then twice.

Then forgot it
in the microwave
until noon.

By afternoon
it sat on the counter
cold again,
a thin skin
settled over the top
like even it
had given up
on being warm.

No one tells you
motherhood can be measured
in abandoned cups.

In showers interrupted.
Meals eaten standing.
Half-finished thoughts.
A name called
from another room
before you remember
what you were doing.

I used to think
love would look
like grand gestures.

Flowers.
Letters.
Someone crossing oceans.

Now I know
sometimes love
looks like leaving
your own warmth
on the counter

because a small voice
needed yours first.

Tonight
I pour the tea
down the sink.

Tomorrow,
I will make another.

Maybe I will drink it hot.

Probably not.

But I will make it anyway.