current

I stand in the middle of the kitchen, surveying the wreckage from the day.

He peers through my lens, he sees

the shade

that I've colored the evening,

so he wraps his arms around me tight.

And we plant feet on tiles,

security and empathy

flow like current

filling me up,

swallowing me whole

while the refrigerator hums

and three little chests

keep the rhythm

of sleep.

The evening sent me spinning.

Dizzy from the nonstop

narration,

instruction,

prevention

that I holler out, like a caller at a square dance

for feral cats.

There's wailing and yelling

and pounding and hugging.

There's towing and pushing and tying and falling.

There's chopping

and cooking

and lifting

and kissing

and feeding

and wiping

and holding

and sighing.

They're tired little boys, by the evening hours.

So when he screams that

he's mad!

and he's so mad that he wants

everyone else to be mad, too!

I nod,

and I tell him

I get it.

That a lot of people feel that way

a lot of the time.

But that really?

Making everyone else mad

doesn't

really

make you

feel

better.

And I ask him

wouldn't it feel a lot nicer

if we just let the happy people help us

let go

of our mad?

And while he sees that's a good idea, he still needs to hang on to the mad for a little bit longer,

and I get it.

There are days I buzz.

Days I sing.

When I'm grabbing and kissing and laughing

And the hours slide off the day

Like icecream

next to warm apple pie.

But when they don't,

When I've crash-landed into

Mess and mayhem,

When I'm crumbling and painting the day with broad strokes of a color

that doesn't really match,

I find relief

in releasing.

In planting feet and wrapping arms.

In filling up and letting go.

In swaying to the sound

of sleep and electricity.