These quiet mornings alone, I dread the silenced house.
Gone are the battle cries and protestations of an unfair life.
The quiet pitter patter that follows the heavy plodding of his older brother has been replaced
with the swishing of the laundry in it’s eternal cycle of life.
Her endless chatter of sparkles and fairies, now filled with the talk of the nation,
as I’m told to consider all things.
And when they return, with unceasing complaints and bottomless hunger,
I consider gathering them up into my arms,
breathing deep into the crease of their necks,
hoping some lingering scent remains of the babies I once cradled in my arms.
flailing arms and nervous giggles protest my grasp,
and shove off the embrace of my arms, yelling “MOM!”
scrubbing their cheeks raw to shed their newborn skin.
These things I consider…
…and silently watch as they grown.