Morning comes softer now.
You rise without rushing,
the house no longer waiting
for your first move.

I visit with small things —
fruit cut the way you like,
a cardigan folded on the chair,
the kettle already warm.

You smile as if surprised
that care can travel in this direction.

There was a time
when every hour depended on you:
school forms, scraped knees,
the quiet way you steadied the day
before anyone else was awake.

You never called it sacrifice;
you just did what the day required.

Now the rooms keep their own order.
The children are grown,
the lists shorter,
your hands gentler with their tasks.

You speak of the past
as if it were a long corridor
you once walked daily
and now visit only when needed.

This afternoon,
you sit by the window
watching the street settle into evening.
You say you like this stage —
the ease, the space,
the way the world no longer
asks so much of you.

I don’t tell you
that I still measure myself
against the quiet strength
you carried for years.

Instead, I refill your cup,
adjust the blanket at your side,
and let the moment stretch
between us —
as if the years have shifted
while we weren’t looking.

 

 

 

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