Inside of a box

Sometimes we feel we are inside something

perhaps it began in our mother’s womb,

cradled in warmth,

a silence that hummed like safety.

A place where fear could not find us.

A box,

not a prison,

but a promise.

 

And then

we were placed outside.

Shivering in the light,

surrounded by sounds that did not care

for our softness.

We learned the weight of air,

the ache of absence,

the long reach of longing.

 

But tell me

in all your trembling,

did you notice her?

Outside her own box,

watching you become.

Can you see her face,

creased with the courage it took

to let you go?

Her hands, still warm from holding you,

now empty?

Her gaze,

more fragile than your cry?

 

She was outside too

brave, breaking,

unboxed.

Done