Aug 10, 2026 - Modern Love

Like sunbeams dancing on closed eyes, orange-red melting warm in my skin, butter spread on toast. Before they put me under, I drew her presence three feet away.

A child’s small paws searching on your face,

committing to memory, absolute joy, pure delight. Her curdle and open arm reach when you leave the edge of sight.

At seventeen, someone I loved who couldn’t cook made me a sandwich. I can still feel the baguette in my hands, taste the Dijon in my mouth. One minuscule bite at a time. I was worried if I ate it fast, I would forget.

So, I watch and notice,

count the freckles on her arm,

the bracelets on her wrist.

But I am no child and she is a mother, not mine.

I refuse what this implies about my childhood.

No, please. 

I refuse to accept this is what I lacked my whole life.