Heaviness tips me over,
Like an unbalanced scale,
Pressed down by anxiety,
The fatigue suppresses me,
Resistant to my plea,
Instead, I sleep, the leaves green,
I sleep, the air brisk and the leaves crisp,
In silence, the grey walls interrogate me,
With unemptied boxes, plastic bags, and hangers,
To-do lists, the hundreds of voicemail messages,
Creeping through me, the throbbing pains, I sleep.
The leaves bud and blossom,
I rise.
I rise, emptying the few boxed contents of a healthy family.
I rise, answering the calls.
I rise, looking through the condensation on the window.
I rise, the mirrored image of my daughter on the droplets.
Her smile, her laugh, her love of sunflowers overwhelms me.
Those words choke me, “She is sick, she is at God’s will.”
Through my tears, the sunflowers wink at me.