mama
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It’s funny. The loudest childalways becomesthe quietest sleeper. The same baby who spent the day redecorating the living room with toys, trying to eat dog food, and laughing while making terrible decisions… now snores softly with one hand wrapped around my shirt. Like she doesn’t spend her waking hours plotting against the very concept of…
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The nighthas its own wayof passing the torch. One pair of eyesfinally closes. Anotheropens. As if my daughtershave signedan invisible agreementnever to leave mealone for too long. Gabby yawns,content with the chaosshe created. Then— A tiny voice. Tiny handsreaching through the crib. Izzy,with sleep still tangledin her hair,looks at melike she’s surprisedI never left. So…
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Everyone saidshe’d sleep eventually. As if babiescarry clocksinstead of curiosity. But here you are,wide-eyed at midnight,telling storiesin a languageonly the moon seems to understand. Your sister surrenderedto dreams hours ago. The dogs have stopped wandering. Even the househas learnedto whisper. But not you. You grinlike we’ve discovereda secret hidden inside the dark. You hand me…
Between Bruises and Blooms 