Coronatine, Day Fifty-seven

if i could be a cat

curled into this ball on a bed

unaware of what noise could keep me awake

unaware of human suffering,

of parenting four teens too afraid to talk to each other,

too afraid to talk to me,

too afraid to build relationships

(so much like their mother, their father, this fear)

(but he isn’t even ours, how is he so much like us?)

unaware of the world outside of this fluff,

this sumptuous, protective ball of fluff,

maybe i’d be a cat. 

 

but i’m only human

and have brought these girls into the world

and this boy into our home

and the world came corona-crashing soon after

and we only have each other

in this lonely, empty house

in this loud-mouthed, angsty house

in this loving, hating house

 

we don’t have this bed, this softness, this protection.

we can only find these feelings in words. 

small gestures. 

trying to speak new languages. 

trying to see who or what we don’t notice.

trying to find this level of peace, 

this cat-comfort peace,

with each other.