Homebound

Like the binding of a favorite book, each chapter tied neatly in its place. Dinner. Dishes. Clothes. Email. Such has become the story of me. My pen wanders, at times, the end chewed and worried, to places unknown and somehow bigger, but always snaps back at the cry of a child, the empty light of my gas tank. I smile as I look into the distance; I smile as I return my gaze to the familiar pages of my life, a faraway look in my eyes. And happiness, if not content, nestles deeply into my heart.

A Mother's Prose

For nine long months, I carried you, Daughter.
I felt your movements; I heard your heart beating.
I hoped for you, wished for you, prayed.
My life inexorably changed in those nine months alone.
My dreams, my interests, my body no longer my own.
I gave myself to you.

And then, one day, you came to us in truth.
Your cries and squeaks were so small, so consuming.
We all fell in love; we all floundered in the dark.
So much to learn! So much to do!
The wonder of you gets swallowed in the details.

But you continually grow, leaving yesterday behind.
We all do, I suppose.
With the house always a mess, and eyes bleary from lack of sleep,
I look up from my chores to meet your eyes
And find that I live for your smiles.