Poetry

I was supposed to be in bed. I knew it, she knew it, but I had written a poem and a poem can’t stay trapped on the page. It has to be heard.

So I sprinted to my parent’s room, the door opened a crack with warm lamp light and the glow from the master bathroom letting me know Mom was there and washing her face or brushing her teeth or somehow awake and getting ready for bed.

“Mom!” I said, praying she would ignore what we both knew I was avoiding, “I wrote a poem. Can I share it with you?”

I saw the eyebrows raise as she contemplated her choices. There was a tentative air of waiting as she thought and acted like there was nothing but my poem to think about.

When you are raising five children, bedtime is finally the time, the only time, you get to yourself.

Her eyebrows crackled as she allowed her face to open into a smile.

She sat down on her bed and patted the space next to her.

“Okay, let’s hear it.”

I don’t remember if she raved about my poem or offered kind criticism. All I remember is she let me in, it was my writing she was willing to bend for. Or maybe it was my passion, my excitement, my joy.

I don’t remember the poem either but I remember that I was certain it was beautiful. Important enough to break the bedtime rules and hope my vulnerability would be met with acceptance.

Sometimes it isn’t about the words at all.

It’s about the feelings you are left with.