Evidence

Some days I think
I have done nothing.

The house still breathes clutter.
The laundry waits patiently.
There are dishes somewhere.
Something is always misplaced.
Something is always unfinished.

And yet—

Today I created.

I designed small signs for small hands,
hoping they might remember
what I can no longer hold
all at once in my mind.

I printed, laminated, and hung them—
tiny promises
that tomorrow
may ask a little less of me.

I packed away thoughts.
Sorted worries.
Built systems
for a life that requires
more remembering
than one person
was ever meant to carry.

I baked.
I nourished.

I drank water
in a body
that is often tired.

I searched for words
to explain
the shape of my own mind,
revisiting old wounds—
not to reopen them,
but to understand
why they still ache.

I loved my children
through preparation.
Through anticipation.
Through trying.
Through beginning again.

This is what is hard
for my brain:

I spend hours creating order,
and five minutes later,
the evidence is gone.

No finished project to admire.
No certificate.
No applause.

Only people living their lives
inside the systems I rebuilt.

Perhaps that is what motherhood is—

Building things meant to be used,
knowing they will need rebuilding tomorrow.

Quiet acts
that disappear
the moment they are completed:

A poster on a wall.
A bag already packed.
A snack already prepared.
A checklist waiting
for tomorrow’s sleepy eyes.

Evidence.

Evidence that I was here.

Evidence that I cared.

Evidence that I carried
what I could.

Evidence that invisible
is not the same thing
as absent.

And if,
by the end of the day,

everyone was fed,

everyone was safe,

everyone was loved,

and nothing terrible happened—

perhaps that, too,
was something beautiful.

Perhaps that, too,
was success.