Human Jenga.

I am not sure, you see, what the great meaning is.

 

The well of grief so full,

spilling over no longer sounds the alarm.

 

At night,

they wrap their little bodies onto mine

and form some sort of human Jenga puzzle.

It sometimes feels like a prison,

my back aching and barely room to breath.

If I move my head, she will hold my face and whimper,

mommy, please keep your forehead on mine, so I can sleep.

 

I become very still and tell myself –

you can do this.

If this is all there is,

it is only for tonight.

 

Thoughts move to you.

Things I want to give, say, do, be.

To somehow lift your burden,

bring you some ease.

 

Oh, how you are just like these little ones.

Clinging to this world,

the one that seems real,

and can be so dark.

 

I reach for your suffering

and it slips through my fingers.

I am left holding my own hand

and sigh into the uncertainty.

 

Tonight I wanted to get back up.

 

I waited until their breath became deep.

Soft.

Slow.

I was reminded of angels

and a lightness from the past slipped in.

I fell asleep for an hour

and woke up,

confused by the present.

 

Carefully, I moved his little leg off of mine

and slid my arm from under his head.

 

She always wraps my nightgown strap around her hand,

somehow finding assurance in the connection.

Her grip had loosened

and I untangled myself from her limbs.

 

Trying not to disturb,

I carefully lifted the covers

and climbed over the boy, who drops into heavier sleep.

I made my way to a spot on the bed that was free,

my piece of the puzzle removed, for a moment.

 

Again, thoughts of you.

A wanting of more

and a knowing,

that now,

I can only be

where there is some space.

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