Sheās wipes a tear
and she makes her bed.
She wipes a tear
and she brushes her teeth.
She wipes a tear
and calls her children awake.
She wipes a tear
and makes her coffee, their breakfast and gives them a second, gentle shake.
She organizes and reminds again, of homework, projects and the schedule to come, she prepares and chauffeurs, loves and nurtures, cooks and cleans.
On her only break, she finds herself on her knees…
on the kitchen floor, to clean.
She wipes a tear
and it turns to a wail
Ā when no one is around.
Fists clenched, her tears cover the floor and her screams fill the empty house.
She wipes her tears
and climbs to her feet.
Stumbling to bed,Ā
she wipes a tear,
sets the alarm, pillow damp, succumbs to sleep.
She wipes a tear and grabs the groceries, pulls into the pick up line, helps with homework, sets dinner on the table, heads off to work…and checks the rear view mirror for signs of her self-duress.
She wipes a tear
and parks the car.
She wipes a tear,
takes a deep breath, clears her mind, sets her intention and prays for relief.
And as the sun hits her face, as it does at the store
and in the pick up line,
she slaps on her confidence and joy, her facade that all is fine.
They see a smile at first glance,
but no one ever takes the chance,
to look deeper…
or longer…
when she sets that mask aside.
Each time she is alone…
she wipes a tear.
