This heart of mine

This heart of mine was made by gentle hands,
the ones that knew how to create with extra care.

She was made for tending to the flowers,
talk and sing of their beauty,
care for their hunger and thirst,
and whisper to them tales of blossom.

She was made to dance with the bees,
hum to their rhythm,
swirl in their pattern and dance,
and walk with them through fields of wildflowers.

This heart of mine was not built to endure
the halls of a children’s hospital,
where the walls are steeped in pain and tears,
and cries of fear and protest fill the air.

She has no choice
but to bravely hold out her hands to her son,
grounding him in her softness
as he endures the next trauma, and then the next.

When she bursts through the exit doors
back out into the sun after hours of being brave,
she falters
and lets her own tears fall.

She was not built for this;
no heart is.

"One day," she comforts to herself,
"this won't be what we remember."

She thinks about the promise she made
to create and treasure the good moments,
to claw back his childhood
piece by piece.

Fill the hallways with his laughter,
talk trains, dragons and other three year old ponderings,
hug, kiss and celebrate everything,
even if they are for making it through another hard thing.

With the next breath
she renews her determination,
rises on tired and aching feet,
and starts to walk back to the doors.

One day, she thinks,
she will get back to the gentle nature of her heart.
Back to the flowers, the bees, the dirt,
and share these gifts with him.

"Until then," she says,
"let's fill these halls with softness."
And steps back over the threshold,
back to the little heart that needs her strength.