thinking of the July 2022 flood on the 26th anniversary of my mamaw’s death

I know I can’t prevent every bad thing
or always fix whatever ends up going awry
or protect my kids from all the ways they could suffer.

I know there are unfathomable scenarios in a few
remaining rabbit holes my brain hasn’t made its way down.

But the pull of motherhood to step in and try anyway
is too great to ignore, especially when I already know
how deep it can go, how hurt can cling to your skin,
echo down into your bones, decades later.

Wanting my babies to know the riches of this world,
to experience the rush when it all works out,
when life is sweet with sunshine and good times
despite ongoing turmoil clinging to the fringes.
My babies, now teens, with their own ideas
shaping how they move through this existence,

and I can’t always save them from those gut-wrenching
reality checks we often must survive—
how we can’t hide from hard aches
or we miss the tender spots too—
and somehow, pain makes the promise
of joyous moments feel all the more sweet
defying wounds again and again despite the scars.

But dammit, I can check the weather and pray it doesn’t rain.