broken (five-minute-friday)

naptime is broken, snapped clean off after 45 minutes, and i try desperately to stitch it back together. 

i whisper into the monitor "good night" and you ask "coze?" and your sister is stirring. 

i climb the stairs, these knees clicking and creaking and with every click i remember the falls; holding you, holding her, landing slam on my left knee, my right.  each knee bore the weight of me holding you both, the scars, the damage.  i'd do it again without thinking twice - without thinking once - catching you comes easier than breathing.

and there is something about mothering that breaks me down, and keeps these knees pressed hard to the floor.  there is so short a time for me to catch you.
i'll never stop holding.
i'll be pulling you on to my lap when you're a freckled eleven, a brawny twenty, a thirty-year-old holding your own newborn.

and i'll keep on crashing to these knees, broken.



(writing prompt broken from lisajobaker.com)