She loves fiercely, specifically, and without condition—because she never had to ration her affection between a husband and a brood. She gives all of it to her roses. To the stray cat she named “Mister.” To the neighbor’s toddler who waves at her window. And now, to me.
And I say, “Where else would I go?”
She looked at the bingo card like I’d handed her a venomous snake. moms juniorcare for old virgin lady
And the nest? It’s plenty big enough for both of us. And now, to me
When she has a nightmare—about her father, about the war, about a boy who left—I sit on the edge of her bed and stroke her hair. I don’t say, “It’s okay, baby.” I say, “Tell me where it hurts, Miss Eleanor.” And she does. And then she sleeps. It’s plenty big enough for both of us
But to me? She is becoming my third child.
That is the truth of it. In caring for a woman who never built a nest, I found a new branch for my own. We are two different species of bird, sharing a tree in a storm.