home
-
all four of them are finally dreaming, and the house,for once,has stopped asking things of me. no cups to fill.no blankets kicked away.no little voices callingmomfrom somewhere down the hall. just silence—soft,strange,almost holy. and me,with a headache bloomingbehind my eyeslike a stormthat waited politelyuntil everyone elsewas safe. I should sleep. I know I should. but…
-
I used to thinkhome was a place— four walls,a locked door,laundry folded badlyon the back of the couch,toys multiplying overnightlike some tiny plastic curse. But I know better now. Home is this. A boy with messy hairand a grin too big for his faceholding his baby sisterlike she has always belongedinside the circle of his…
-
The compass has not changed, but the road home has been bent, leaving a mother to wait while every room still points toward her boys.
-
After years of searching for home in other people’s arms, she realizes the place she kept rebuilding was herself.
-
The walls remember every version of her—the tears, the coffee, the restless nights, and the woman who kept figuring out what came next.
-
Porches, gravel roads, abandoned houses, forests, and kitchens become the places that held her when people could not.
-
At four in the morning, the babies sleep, the house belongs to silence, and Honey kneads the weight of the night out of a tired lap.
-
Once the babies finally sleep, Honey claims the quiet hours, curling close as though she has been waiting for exhaustion to make room for her.
-
A family recipe becomes a memory of sticky fingers, sleepy smiles, and love passed down one bite at a time.
-
Myst knows nothing about the past; she only knows these hands are gentle, this bed is warm, and closing her eyes here is safe.
Between Bruises & Blooms 