The Comfort of My Mother

I miss the comfort of my mother,

the way her voice could quiet storms

that the world never even saw coming.

There was a time

when her hands could fix anything—

a scraped knee,

a cracked heart,

a day that felt too heavy to hold.

Now the world presses harder,

and I’m older,

and she can’t protect me from it.

But I still find myself wishing

I could crawl back into that kind of safety—

the kind that didn’t ask for explanations,

that didn’t measure strength

by how much pain you could hide.

I miss her voice,

the way she said my name

like it was still small enough to save.

I miss the comfort

of knowing I didn’t have to carry everything.

The weight of the world is lonely.

And sometimes,

all I want

is my mother’s arms

and a reason

not to be brave for a little while.