There are no days off in motherhood

I catch myself every now and then wishing,

for a minute,

an hour,

a day,

all to myself.

A small glimpse into a distant, forgotten life,

laying dormant in my memory.

Some time to steal away and visit my former self,

like an old friend long overdue to reminisce.

What would that look like?

A day off from being Mum.

Would I catch up on sleep?

Would I finally do all the to-do’s?

Would I simply revel in the bliss, 

of unshared meals and uninterrupted showers?

Inevitably I’d end up scrolling through my phone, 

looking at photos of you,

like I often do.

Wondering what you’re doing.

Wondering what I’m missing.

Homesick for your touch, 

your smell, 

your smile.

Because no matter how many small moments I have of wishing,

for a minute,

an hour,

a day all to myself,

you have imprinted yourself in permanent ink on my soul.

You are entwined so deep within my heart,

it can no longer beat without you.

I have held you so close against my chest,

I can no longer breathe without you.

You have fixed my gaze so singularly,

I can no longer see beyond you.

For this reason,

those moments of wishing are few and fleeting.

For this reason,

that life stays preserved but untouched in my memory.

For this reason,

there are no days off in motherhood.

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