Melinda Mejia.

Tired

Some days everything makes me tired,

the wiping and wiping until the spot shines,

the picking up and putting down and picking up again,

the smile on my baby’s face,

the breakfast food that didn’t really take that long to prepare,

the research, the preparation, the emails, the books,

your posts on facebook,

your happy faces, your family time, your working out, your cooking,

your thoughts, your rants, you selfies, your self-promoting crap, your judgmental double-standards,

your prayers, your God posts, your life-sucks posts, your life-is-great posts, your backwards posts,

the sound of the highway, the possibility of rain, the not-so-silent silence of a Sunday afternoon,

and the thought that you are here,

and you, and you –

and I, never alone but always lonely.

 


 

Small

There is a certain way in which I feel small compared to you:

Small like the rounded pebble at the bottom of an old raging river,

Small like a new flower on an ancient prairie that has seen ice, torrents, and then sun again,

Small like the learning student awed by her teacher’s cosmopolitanism,

Small and undeserving,

Small and unknowing,

Small, but in a certain way only.

Small, not in a way that self-effaces, but in a way that lifts,

because when you look upon me

you do so

as if I were

something big.

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