First draft
I
He has a cold,
His breathing like gravel and sludge.
He can’t get comfortable,
Can’t seem to relax.
Sleep.
He throws his head around,
Whimpers or even cries out.
He is past tired.
Miserable.
But I don’t complain.
His weight on my chest
And fitful squirming still fit perfectly,
Like he’s where he belongs
And should always only be.
If I thought he could sleep like this,
I would stay right here all night.
For now
I wait
Watch
Sing
Listen
Pray
Hope
And snuggle.
II
She is a voice on the phone.
That’s how I know her now,
How I’ve known her
For more than half my life.
A voice
And a hug once or twice a year.
Our connection is no longer
Physical
Like before,
When I am lying on my bed
Sick
And she is rubbing the Vick’s
On my chest,
Covering it with a washcloth,
Rubbing my back
While I whimper and moan.
She keeps at it,
Rubbing and patting
And singing.
III
Did she know it would happen?
That we would leave,
Become only voices?
Did she know the last time
I lay on her chest
Was the last time?
Did she know
And hold on
To that moment?
Or did she refuse to let go?
Does she still believe
As I believe,
That the weight of her children
Belongs and always only should be
On her chest
And in her arms?
You are so lovely. I love your words.
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Oh Alyce. This is so good. I love to read it.
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So good.
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Simple beautiful❤️
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