There are days, more numerous than I would ever like to admit, that are spent rehearsing my failures. I number and name every crack that splices through the walls of this house, they abound and multiply. So much of life seems to seep through.
Last night I sunk into your bed beside you with a sigh. A slow and quiet breath of protest against this pressure building- the constant and nagging lie that the things left undone somehow define my womanhood, my motherhood.
My bones sink like quicksand when you begin to trace the lines of my face, the shape of a tender and beating heart in my chest. In the dark you find your way to me.
I love you, mom, you say. But what I hear is: I love you, and I forgive you, and you are always enough.