coffee
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She never slept; morning simply found her standing at the edge of night while the sky bruised itself into gold.
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Joy can be ordinary enough to serve for breakfast: small, messy, sweet, and gone before you realize you needed it.
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A sleepless Sunday moves slowly through teething, cold coffee, drawn curtains, and the mercy of not rushing anything.
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At two in the morning, cold coffee, laundry, and a judgmental cat hold up the same house motherhood keeps running through the dark.
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At 4:20 a.m., an old smoke ritual lingers as memory while the sleeping house and a tired mother move toward morning.
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Sick or not, motherhood still wakes with bottles, dishes, dogs, medicine, and the quiet strength of doing the next thing.
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At 3:33, cold coffee, a staring cat, and a candle with no breeze make inspiration feel suspiciously close to haunting.
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Before the children wake and the house fills with need, a few quiet minutes become enough room to hear herself again.
Between Bruises & Blooms 