Nursing Home

A multitude of arms open wide to embrace us. Hands clasp together in prayer on our behalf. We are held by the loving energy of a community I have grown by both being truly seen and revealing only disjointed, fractured pieces of myself. 

My son's horrific screams fill the air. His body trembles in fear. Dodges each quick movement of my hand in pain. He recoils in my care as I undress, clean, and redress his wounds.

My insides twist and wrench under the burden and honor of being his mom today. My heart screams, but my voice refuses to serve as its platform. No matter how I am held, I feel so mercilessly alone.

Perception of time has escaped me. A disconnect from reality that I can neither stop nor care to. Each day my feet move underneath me in the throws of the deep and muted suffering. I breathe out of consequence. I move out of obligation.

I am alive. Life is in the suffering as much as the ease.

Depression is cuffed tightly to my ankles. The clink of its chains clank dragging as the soundtrack to my every move. The ankle cuffs run smoothly along the callouses they've formed beneath them on my skin. There is some relief in their coolness pulling tight against me. The heaviness of my step almost welcomes the familiarity of them. I am its prisoner who may never quite be exonerated.

You look to me for Hope.
Strength. Inspiration.
The healthy, immortal parts of my soul sparkle out from my eyes to you. My hands called to move your pain, rub tension from your shoulders and soften your suffering.

I am the guardian of your birth story. 

You will never know the pain with which I move yours. The light your unfolding story bursts into my darkness. The home of my work, which I seek refuge in. A home made by you, a stranger, my patient, melting under my care.

- A Cool Grandma's Cool Granddaughter