I cannot write.
I cannot do the things
the laundry begs of me.
My son was barely asleep at midnight,
fitful and scared.
Finally, a quiet overcame him.
I took this time to read
and remember the day
as it passed in his stead.
I thought of how swiftly from comfort
and that every time, I fear the potential loss.
I want to sleep now.
I want to carry his shadow
to my bed so when we cry
neither of us will fear the night-
but I don’t budge.
My strength is his strength and without it
he will soon be lost.
Though most days are okay,
still the few are desperate
for a memory that loosens the dark.
All I can do is place my hands upon us
and imagine our bodies are filled with light.
It comes from above and from earth,
and it blends somewhere in the middle
like a beacon for the hurting soul to stumble toward.
©2012 Jessica Stephenson All Rights Reserved