There she is, sitting at my inner desk,
surrounded by spreadsheets and pink
eraser rubbings. She’s scrubbing at her
temples, running the numbers, planning,
preparing, making projections. I just
want to know things are going to be okay,
she says. She is worried. She is always worried.
I do not try to stop her. Her heart is golden,
and her longing to help is born out of love
that has twisted into fear. Instead, I sit
beside her. I do not hum a soothing song.
I don’t tell her a story that ends happily ever
after. Nor do I chastise her. I don’t tell her
she’s doing it wrong or that there is a way
to do life more right. I don’t tell her she’s
supposed to be grateful for whatever she gets.
I simply show up and breathe beside her
and feel how much she belongs. My love
for her does not make her stop worrying.
There is plenty to worry about. We go
on that way, for a day, for a life. The wind always
messing her hair. The chair never right.
The world too fast, too broken, too painful.
She doesn’t have to face it alone.