Because I Still Believe
A poem for heavy times
The alarm on my phone rings, and I fumble to hit the snooze button. The news alerts jolt me from my slumber. Hostages released. Humanitarian crisis. Conspiracy theories. Election fraud. GOP. Fraud case. Chum salmon are spawning in the Atlantic. It’s an ominous sign. I hear my son singing from his crib. He wants milk, and he wants breakfast. I swing my legs out of bed to start our day. I feed him and wonder how many mothers aren’t getting to feed their babies. I put on a pair of jeans and wonder how many people lost everything they’ve had. My breath catches. My heart feels like it’s going to burst. My son comes into the room, holds out his hand, and says, Mama, come. He brings me to a stack of blocks he has just assembled himself. He looks at me and says, yay! Yay, I say right back. We then Facetime his grandmother to say hi. I check in on a friend who has lost her father. We mail a birthday card. We donate what we can to the ones who need it. Nap time comes, and still, I settle into the quiet to write. Because I still believe that words matter. Because I still believe that art heals. Because I still want to leave this world softer for my baby, for all the babies. Because I still believe, still.
