What it means.

It's the sound of the rain on the roof.
It's your arm on my chest and a dog in my lap.
It's a deep and abiding peace.
It's a slow and gentle hum.
It's the smell of last night's roast, of my favorite incense and the grainy mulch.
A little bath wash, a little fabric softener, an old vanilla candle.
It's blankets and the fireplace.
Your heavy sleeping breaths in my hair.
It's a rhythm I didn't know I wanted, a pace I never understood 'til now.
It's settling down, but not settling for.
It's moving forward in measured steps instead of a jitterbug swing, and keeping time with spoons and oven mitts.
It's the home I always craved, but didn't know how to make 'til now.
It's a furry foot on mine, and my hands in your hands that make me feel small and safe and precious.
It's here and now.
It isn't perfect, or easy all the time.
But it means so very much more than I ever meant before.
To mean something to you.

Reilly Nurse.

Sometimes, I wonder.
I take a breath for comparison and ask whether I'm doing a good job.
I wonder what I could do better, or different, or even worse.
I got to be there in the room where so many had gone before.
I fill some pretty big shoes, walking in hallowed footsteps here.
Fourth generation nurse at this hospital, I just got to help care for the fourth generation of my family...
These are the things roots are made of.
Sometimes I walk by the pictures of my great-grandmother and great-aunt that peer out from the wall downstairs- both president of their class here in the days when the nursing students lived in the old nuns' dorm across the street. I look into their bright faces and smile back with the same cheeks and wonder whether they'd be proud of me.
Whether they would make the same decisions I do.
I hope that: bolstered by innovation and technology, research and professionalism that improve my understanding of the human response to disease... That I am taking the same careful care of bodies and souls and hearts and families as they did.
I imagine that: when they were sitting where I sit, monitoring signs and easing symptoms, that nurses still complained about staffing, rolled their eyes at administrative policies, and shared stories and pictures of their children.
I am so thankful to hear the same cries of joy and relief and sorrow that they did, and to make a life in their legacy.

Alive.

All of those things that you run from?
They'll still be there when you get back.

Bricks and cotton.

Some permutation of gravity,
I spin my ellipsis round again
Spun back into comfortable, and safe
Like that old blanket, or some
Well-worn slippers.
That kind of comfort.  The kind everyone wants to say they don't need.
I stay skittish.
I stay wary.
Little wolfish at the table, I'm scared and hungry for roots.
Drifting panic comes easy, old habits die hard
But- that smile so easy, that dream so real and painfully tangible
I just didn't know how to hurt right, ever.
And then didn't know how heal.
So, I knit back my skin one fiber at a time.
I sew myself to you in phrases
"I love you", I sing;
"I'm sorry", you sigh.
"I won't" you promise:
And "we'll try".
But we.
It's easy to be alone.
You slowly wall yourself off, immurement.
Brick by brick.
We only stay alive, only find ourselves or God or something that means anything
Through eachother.  Through and through, not above or below or around but Through.
And so I stay open.
I keep working through.
Cause in the end I love you like I love water.
I can do without, but not for long.
I've found some wind in my sails and I'll find more cotton to
Sew together.
Yours and mine.
Brick,
By careful brick.

Lost Sleep.

Three o'clock and all is well.
Sleep and fleeting dreaming
Breathing hot and heavy on my neck
Open wide bright clouds and wash
My smoking soot-hair clean.
Three o'clock
O' holy hour of our night
Snow-thick blanket on the city's sparking lights and heaving tires.
Three o' wandering
Three o' wondering
Three o' keeping quiet watch
Shepherds of another morning, another soul to lose, another flock of counted sheep.

Fifteen Grams.

Cake.
Cake, please.
Sometimes the short journey from cradle to tomb
Isn't that long a stay.
Fifteen grams of sweet dreams
Gone so fast.
Fifteen grams of hope.
Of healing.
Of salvation all wrapped in plastic, now.
Labeled.
Lost.
So many firsts that just won't be.
So many joyful moments- too rare in this strange and terrible life-
Hold fast to your tiny ones,
Count their toes with your blessings.
Sigh relief with your frustrations, mothers.
Fathers, stand fast your watch over sleeping heads.
Sometimes our dreams slip aching and howling silent through our fingers.
Sometimes all we are left with
Is a dry and lonely slice of cake.

Out of time.

Out of habit.
Out of time and mind, I wander
Loose and bright stars
Like bullet holes
Like shining arrow-marks, they drip
Their hot silver on my eyelids.
I carry my baggage forth,
Onion paper peeling down my sides
Peer again, unbelieving through the bottom of another glass-
The answers still aren't there.
But the whispers are.
Some cold metal taps a quiet heartbeat on the door.
I scoop an errant constellation of dimes from the bottom of my purse and curse them right back.
Fuck you, winter.
Not this time.