Motherhood
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When sleep would not come, she wrapped two tired daughters into a stroller and carried their exhaustion outside to meet the moon.
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Two babies somehow create enough laundry for a village, leaving one tired mother at the base of a mountain made entirely of tiny clothes.
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The walls remember every version of her—the tears, the coffee, the restless nights, and the woman who kept figuring out what came next.
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The house is a mess because people live here—laundry multiplies, toys migrate, dishes wait, and love takes up space.
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Laundry, made beds, stocked cupboards, and careful little chores become a countdown to the sound of her boys coming home.
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Porches, gravel roads, abandoned houses, forests, and kitchens become the places that held her when people could not.
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The woman who once waited has already left, and the old door was burned for firewood the moment almost stopped being enough.
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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.
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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.
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At 12:10 p.m., one sleepy child opens her eyes and morning finally begins on her own stubborn schedule.
Between Bruises & Blooms 