The Night I Carried You

I can still smell the milk
drying on my shirt that night,
a faint sweetness woven into fatigue,
the kind of scent that clung to me
long after the room went quiet.

You cried like the world was ending—
and maybe, in your small way, it was.
The home you once knew was gone—
replaced by my arms and chest.

I rocked you in circles,
half-prayer, half-lullaby,
my arms burning,
my body begging for rest.
But I kept moving,
because surrender wasn’t an option.

Every breath you took
was a tether,
pulling me back from unraveling.
I thought of mothers before me,
how many had stood where I stood—
barefoot, exhausted,
yet holding the world in their arms.

You quieted slowly,
your cheek damp against my chest,
your fist clutching my shirt
like I was the last safe place.
And maybe I was.

I remember thinking:
what if love is nothing more
than this endless willingness
to stay awake when the world sleeps,
to keep swaying when your body aches,
to give more even when you have nothing left?

The night stretched thin as thread,
but I held on,
counting each sigh you let go,
memorizing the weight of you—
knowing even then
that time would steal it from me one day.

And still,
if I close my eyes now,
I can feel the ache in my shoulders,
the warmth of your breath,
the fragile miracle of your trust.

A memory heavy as sleep,
and just as endless.