Mo(u)rning. {Poem}

Most of my married friends are envious of the “time off” I get from parenting each week.

“Ah! I wish I could get a weekend off from everyone, too!”

Sure, there are times when I’ve had a long week and I need a little respite, silence and uninterrupted hours to write. But, and it’s a big but; it’s laced with a suffocating sadness: I’m missing out on their childhood, days and weeks and years of it. What I wouldn’t give to have them in their beds every morning. That was something I didn’t have the maturity or foresight to contemplate before I got divorced. However, this is the reality and I choose to cherish the time I do spend with them…


I climb the stairs

On my tip toes

As though they’re asleep in their beds

And I don’t want to wake them

Tucked in safe and sound

I know where they are

I know what they ate last night

I can hear them breathing

They both sleep with their mouths slightly open

I put their washcloths beside the sink

One on either side

The toothpaste stains are gone, fresh for the week ahead

I open her blinds

And then I open hers

I smooth the bedspread with my hand

Hoping for a lump, a stir, a wisp of hair catching between my fingers

But it’s flat


So am I

When they are not with me.



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