“Mommy, I’m tired,”
My eight-year-old says from her nest on the couch.
Tissues and cough drip wrappers litter the floor.
“Then go to sleep,” I say,
Glancing up from my work.
Another death report.
I sigh,
Because I’m tired too.
I’m tired of the death reports,
Tired of the opinions,
The division,
The conspiracy theories
And misinformation.
I’m tired of the anger,
The frustration,
The hopelessness of it all.
But I can’t sleep,
Because when I close my eyes
I see defeat on the horizon.
As long as I keep going,
There is hope.
There is a chance this will all end.
There’s a chance we’ll be able to pick up
All the broken pieces of this crumbling society
And put it back together.
So I force a smile
And pull myself to my feet
And I tuck my daughter in.
“Sweet dreams,” I say
With a kiss on her feverish forehead,
Wishing someone had taken the same care
To protect me from all of this.
To protect all of us from all of this.