all day i stay hidden.

hiding from the pain that climbed into my head whilst i was sleeping, settled itself comfortably behind my eye, an old foe and how familiar we are to each other, by now.

it settles a mood on me—grey, a storm fills my mouth, and what falls from my tongue has sharp edges, howls.

i try to shape my words carefully with soft hands, call them love, but

i fail.

i am not always what i want to be.

in the late afternoon, he bursts into my bedroom, climbs onto my lap, spills his long limbs all over me, his boy hands on my cheeks, eyes finding mine,

says

is your head sore, mom?
i think you are grumpy and cross because it hurts.
it’s ok.
i still love you.

all the things we have taught each other, always his eyes are on mine, searching for the way home, true north, grace.

his hands still full of all the things that smell like heaven.

— how to love like heaven.

© Liezel Graham 2020.

Image by Annie Spratt.
{Unsplash}.