She Got Up Anyway
On the unglamorous mechanics of morning after a night the body could barely hold.
There are nights
the house is quiet,
but her heart is not.
Nights where the weight presses down,
not all at once,
but slow,
like rain seeping through wood.
She cries without sound.
Not to be brave.
Not to be seen.
But because even grief
has to make room
for morning.
She turns her face to the pillow,
lets the ache move through her
like something ancient.
This has happened before,
in other rooms,
other lifetimes.
She knows the rhythm now.
The body breaks
before the day does.
Then the day arrives anyway.
She gets up.
Not fully.
Not with joy.
Just up.
She pours the cereal.
Finds the missing shoe.
Answers the email.
Pretends the ground hasn’t shifted.
No one knows
what she held last night.
What she let go of.
What she almost couldn’t.
She is the keeper
of cracked things.
Of quiet disappointments.
Of invisible repairs.
And still
she rises.
Still
she makes it all move.
Not because she’s whole.
But because someone has to.
And because somewhere,
long ago,
someone like her
did the same.