I always find myself on a floor.
Whatever the setting.
.
On the ground playing with babies,
The one who doesn’t need a chair at a social gathering,
The cold bathroom floor grieving
 
Sitting crisscross applesauce
Watching a movie
Even holding my sleeping daughter
or making it a “fun camp out”
to sleep on the floor when we didn’t have a bed
 
Folding the clothes that have been tossed about,
sitting on my knees,
feet falling asleep
Gathering my thoughts on the hardwood
Letting my ass go numb sitting on the concrete steps
While analyzing the neighbors’ movements,
Scrubbing baseboards

And yes,

Too many times, my face in shaking hands
with hot tears pooling
on the various cold bathroom floors
that have supported me in the most desperate of moments,
begging answers to the most desperate questions,
feeling the most desperate of feelings.
Pouring it all into the tiles,
praying it’ll provide numbness.
Knowing…
it won’t cave like the cowards
who cause the tears
and my family who can’t handle the level of pain
that dwells in me,
no doubt its too heavy.
But never too heavy or too light
for the ground beneath me.

Consistent and sturdy. Non-judging and silent.
Existing solely for the purpose
to uphold and maintain.