Standing with my back to the four windowed corner of my dining room,
Wearing a simple black dress that my husband loves, and bare feet,
My hair in yesterday’s mohawk (that my six year old nephew thinks is cool).
In that moment, surveying my dirty house while I hummed a tune,
And rocked my still new baby to sleep, content inside her wrap,
The weight of her heavy on my shoulders (in a sense both literal and figurative)
As I left that reverie and went to make a cup of coffee across the kitchen,
As I poured the last of the grinds into the machine, leaving the empty bag,
And looked at the clock and the dishes (the laundry, the floors, that microwave, dinner).
I felt beautiful,
A rare occurrence I wanted to share,
So I don’t forget it happened the next time
I do not.