You know when you can hear your mother inside you saying that you have to rest? But you know and she knows that you can’t, not now. Well, not just yet.

And your mother’s face is around you with that look, that understanding that you can’t stop. And she swallows hard, keeps it all in, and like her, you do just the same.

And she sits alongside you in the silent dawning kitchen, she makes the tea for you while you let yourself feel feelings for a while.

She wears that old green dressing gown that kept her warm and she shuffles with her life-lived feet. She knows. And under her dressing gown, her body that made you, is reminding you that you can do this, that you have the strength.

You lean into the worktop, the oak takes your weight. It’s quiet in here, apart from your sniffing and the soft sounds of your mother busying herself around you. 

She walks alongside you keeping you up.

She passes the tea cup to you. She knows everything you feel.

You drink up, wipe your eyes.

Do it all again, she whispers.

You can stop soon. just not today. Your mother on the inside, charging you up. again.