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Satisfaction, by Moira Rose

There is a certain satisfaction that comes

from holding space for yourself.

Setting out two cups while you

wait for the tea kettle to whistle.

Breaking up the chocolate into

portions resembling halves.

When the tea kettle whistles I grab

the honey bear.

I squeeze equal portions to the

carved out porcelain with

glazed handles.

Each mug holding a

different tea bag because part

of holding space for yourself is

enjoying the freedom of unbridled variety.

Because choices have already

been made for my body

I choose chamomile for one

and cardamom for another.

I pour the cinnamon in one,

but not the other. 

As I pour the boiling water I inhale

deeply as the tea bag simmers

in the steam of it.

I breathe in and live every memory

that rises from the fragrant trigger.

I still hold the space for me.

I am not looking over my shoulder

for someone to join me because

right now the space is occupied by

the one who needs healing.

I am holding space for her

like a crib for an infant.

One day she will outgrow this.

One day the crib will be repurposed

into a bench or a table for

my small children.

The memory that I used it until

my head and toes reached the edges

will bring gratitude that I learned how

to rock myself to sleep.

I learned to use  my own arms before

I went looking for arms

to hold me together.

I’ll look because I want to look, and

not because my own arms

are cold and unfamiliar.

If I fall apart I will know it

wasn’t because I didn’t do my work.

If I fall apart I’ll pull out

two mugs again.

I’ll pull out two flavors of tea again.

I’ll wrap my arms around me

and sway until I can sleep again.

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