Kayla

It was the sadness in her own heart

That she covered with the stories

She always told.

Ben was always doing well,

Going the extra mile, making the boss smile,

And who knew who else, but Kayla never said

That part.

And Gwen was such a gift from God Himself,

She could pinch herself–how lucky–to be given

A little piece of heaven to hold in her own arms.

Sometimes, at night, the story became the real

Truth instead of the daughter growing older, her

Arms growing longer and pushing Kayla out

Into the quiet of a bedroom Ben would never

Get around to paint.

There were swatches she had swiped from Home Depot

And dropped into her purse to pull out during

Bibles and Beverages, the much joked-about name

Of the Wednesday morning study group Kayla attended

With all the other young thirty-something mothers,

Sipping coffee and complaining about the hard

That came with a life lived in real-time without

The protective bubble of their online sub-realities,

But never Kayla. She wasn’t weak. She was better,

Different than the rest who seemed to shove their truth

Right on the table next to the half-eaten croissants

And wadded up napkins, forcing her to process

A mouthful of their pain when she could never even

Stand to take a bite of her own.