The House I Built

 

This house
still carries
the rhythm of my hands.

In its corners
live the mornings
I woke before the sun,
kneading love
into breakfast
while the world
was still asleep.

I stitched years
into school uniforms,
packed courage
into lunch boxes,
and folded my dreams
neatly
between laundry and lullabies.

Your father’s tired evenings
rested on my shoulders.
Your childhood storms
found shelter in my arms.

I was the quiet bridge
between every argument,
the lamp that stayed lit
when darkness
visited our doors.

No one noticed
how slowly
my own seasons changed.

How my laughter
began to thin
like fading ink.

Now my voice
echoes strangely
in rooms
I once filled with life.

The same hands
that held yours steady
are waved aside
like inconvenient memories.

The same heart
that carried you all
beats quietly
in a corner of this home.

Sometimes I wonder—

did my love
become invisible
the moment
it became constant?

Still,
even through this silence,
I cannot unlearn
the language of care.

Because a mother’s heart
does not know
how to withdraw
what it has given.

But tonight,
as I sit with my tired bones
and unspoken years,

I ask the walls
I built with my life—

do they remember
who I was
before I became
everything
for everyone else?

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