I know I look tired. I say I didn’t sleep well — because tired is the only thing I’m allowed to be out loud.
A mouth that closes before the sentence finishes, an apology already forming for anything at all. The daily arithmetic of how much of myself to put away so everyone stays pleased.
So I nod, I swallow, I look away, and I keep the peace with pieces of myself.
The streets are full. My heart is empty.
I can be gentle with everyone except the person in the mirror — and that’s the part that hurts me the most.
Everything is bleak… except for him. My big baby, my grumpy old man with a temper, heavy paw, stinky breath. Slower on the stairs, but somehow still quick to find me in whatever room I’ve gone quiet in.
I don’t let myself think about the day he isn’t there — only about what’s left of me when it comes.
But for now I’ll just put my hand on his head and breathe the way he taught me to.