quiet moments
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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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Through the crib rails, a mother watches one small dreamer and remembers that safety can look like the simplest ordinary promise.
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Before the rain arrives, a sleepless family walks through a night full of small creatures, quiet streets, and unexpected tenderness.
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Only after the stroller is parked and the babies finally sleep does the sky release the storm it seemed to be holding for them.
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A tiny frog in the road becomes a reminder that motherhood teaches the eye to notice fragile lives the world might otherwise pass by.
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Goosifer folds her wings, Izzy Bear finds her den, and at last the whole little forest of a household becomes quiet.
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The household’s tiny chaos agent finally sleeps, transforming from Goosifer into a soft little snore wrapped around her mother.
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One twin finally closes her eyes just as the other wakes, passing the night shift between them like a perfectly coordinated little conspiracy.
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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.
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A late-night smoke does not promise to fix grief or erase hard realities; it simply offers a little honest quiet.
Between Bruises & Blooms 