Rootlessness in through the looking glass.

Early, early Thanksgiving morning. You and I and the one dim light in our living room. I’ve given up on sleep for either of us, for now. You look into my eyes and I look into yours and with my gaze I try to tell you everything.

How you are loved. How I will always love you. How desperately I hope you never feel this persistent emptiness, the rootlessness that keeps me adrift and somehow fundamentally unable to connect with others in the way I most desperately want and need.

They didn’t come for your naming. Not one of them. And they haven’t made plans to come otherwise. It has nothing to do with you, my sweet girl, except I suppose in the ways in which you are an extension of me. It’s their loss, mostly.

My days are filled with caregiving. You, your brother, the endless laundry and dishes. I know it’s not forever, but I don’t really know how long either, and that makes it feel endless. I wish there were someone to care for me too, sometimes. But I’ve also known now for a very long time that that’s not to be. So why do I sit here and still let it destroy me so?