Feet dragging, up to her bedroom
Screams are uninviting but I’m pulled to her.
Resistance exhausted, she cuddles in.
Softest velvet against my neck, my cheek.
My too dry eyes drop heavy and burn.
Out of my skin and on edge from all their littleness,
It takes and takes.
My mind scrolls through lists and worries like a feed and yet,
She centres me, tight shoulders release.
Her shallow breath laps over me like a wave.
My Grandmother's rocking chair gently now forwards and back.
‘I’m trying my best.’ Did I say that out loud?
Tears fill and sting but don’t fall.
I carry you, the chair carries me.
I put my desperation into a threadbare cushion on stained wood.
Could she be in here somewhere in these smooth curved lines?
Tomorrow I might come in to your smiling face,
But today we let the chair take our troubles.
Close our eyes, gently now, forwards and back,
Love is here in a threadbare cushion.
—Grace O’Malley