Shrapnel in a Jar

In mornings I arise to fetch that thing that's needed. Could be coffee, could be milk, maybe to take out the dogs. An engine I am, with pistons in motion, Turning with the dawn.

Such little time is left for us- so called parents- for us to have our own. When... A little voice calls through the night, with little arms upraised...reach out. So instantly cancel our plans....so instantly cancels everything.

So much we focus on the hope that she’d listen, that she’d rest assured...So she’d sleep. So much we’d learn in patience, that mysterious wellspring discovered by a parent. You will never master it....but it will teach you- one way or another.

And then comes again the dawn, with the collateral damage of our adult needs blasted and strewn out into the night before like shrapnel, unsure when we’d be restored...Unsure of anything anymore.

But, the day comes and small, concentrated drops of joy, like a sweet and healing salve, descend from some unknown place.

And, then another night and another morning. And again we’re up with the dawn and I can’t remember yesterday morning, or the morning before. But here again my pistons turn and I’m making coffee. I’m taking out the dogs.

We’re picking up shrapnel for her to keep in a jar, our Love and sacrifice through ceaseless devotion.