You have these babies and you get lost and found at the same time. Home becomes something tangible and pulsing, all the parts that weren’t tethered are now anchored. But those parts you’re still trying to piece together, some days they’re holding on by a string like a stitching that’s come undone. I know my place in this world, I’m their mom, but in that roots-deep certainty lies the dreaming, the searching. Somewhere in the inky darkness hands tremble as they cobble together dreams I had when I was only a few years older than them. I’m up at 4:30. I daydream. I write notes on napkins and the backs of envelopes.
And yet, with arms full of the biggest love I’ve ever known, I find the strength to thread the needle, piecing together what’s lost with what’s been found.