The Quiet Art of Disguise

My mother taught me early

how to smooth a story—

set my face in order,

gentle the voice,

swallow the trembling,

no matter the room.

In our kitchen, anger simmered

just beneath the surface,

but on birthdays,

we became a careful photograph—

no sharp edges, practiced smiles,

and the silent truce of cake.

I learned to laugh so quietly

I wouldn’t wake the worry.

I learned to be helpful,

to blend like sugar in tea.

Later, in my own house,

with little ones spinning

in wild, sunlit orbit,

I layered new masks

over the old:

the calm mother, patient wife,

never letting my hands shake

as I patch knees, pack lunches,

tame the wild in my voice.

But when the day slips quiet—

laundry folded, chickens fed,

the house heavy with sleep—

I catch my own eyes in the dark window.

What’s left beneath the gentle mask?

Old wounds, a quiet rage,

the sharp ache of wanting

to be seen whole—

not just the keeper, the fixer,

the peacemaker at dinner.

Some masks are safety—

a way to step out the door,

to keep harm from touching

the ones I love.

But some, I find, are old ghosts

that linger past their use—

hiding not just from others,

but from the parts of myself

I’m not sure I can show.

Tonight, I peel them back,

one by one:

Daughter. Mother. The calm in the storm.

I let the truth breathe in the hush—

soft, unpainted, my own true face

coming up for air.