This morning I am having breakfast with a pair of socks. Actually- with a pile of laundry that I find painfully difficult to fold.
Heaped up on the table,
Next to the socks- folded,
Next to my plate of fresh eggs.
Eggs that never got cold- from chicken to pan, to plate.
This morning I am having breakfast with a pair of folded socks.
And trying not to cry.
Not the kind of alone I rant and rave for-
Not the kind that my motherhood screams and cries and
Goddamnit- why can’t I just have time to myself?!
Not that. Not solitude.
Just alone with reminders of the things that need to be done
And the people I miss that the things belong to.
And when I do cry-
I will probably wipe my tears with the laundry.
Using the painfully difficult to do,
To comfort the painfully unavoidable thing I often can’t stop doing.
If they noticed me the way I need to be noticed-
Would the loneliness end?
Would solitude find me?
Would I feel any less a failure and perhaps,
Of anything really.
Life is so much to do.
And it seems I’ve done nothing.