Text for Tired Eyes – by Tyler Knott


This is an ode to all of those that have never asked for one.

A thank you in words to all of those that do not do

what they do so well for the thanking.

This is to the mothers.

This is to the ones who match our first scream

with their loudest scream; who harmonize in our shared pain

and joy and terrified wonder when life begins.

This is to the mothers.

To the ones who stay up late and wake up early and always know

the distance between their soft humming song and our tired ears.

To the lips that find their way to our foreheads and know,

somehow always know, if too much heat is living in our skin.

To the hands that spread the jam on the bread and the mesmerizing

patient removal of the crust we just cannot stomach.

This is to the mothers.

To the ones who shout the loudest and fight the hardest and sacrifice

the most to keep the smiles glued to our faces and the magic

spinning through our days.  To the pride they have for us

that cannot fit inside after all they have endured.

To the leaking of it out their eyes and onto the backs of their

hands, to the trails of makeup left behind as they smile

through those tears and somehow always manage a laugh.

This is to the patience and perseverance and unyielding promise

that at any moment they would give up their lives to protect ours.

This is to the mothers.

To the single mom’s working four jobs to put the cheese in the mac

and the apple back into the juice so their children, like birds in

a nest, can find food in their mouths and pillows under their heads.

To the dreams put on hold and the complete and total rearrangement

of all priority.  This is to the stay-at-home moms and those that

find the energy to go to work every day; to the widows and the

happily married.

To the young mothers and those that deal with the unexpected

announcement of a new arrival far later than they ever anticipated.

This is to the mothers.

This is to the sack lunches and sleepover parties, to the soccer games

and oranges slices at halftime.  This is to the hot chocolate

after snowy walks and the arguing with the umpire

at the little league game. To the frosting ofbirthday cakes

and the candles that are always lit on time; to the Easter egg hunts,

the slip-n-slides and the iced tea on summer days.

This is to the ones that show us the way to finding our own way.

To the cutting of the cord, quite literally the first time

and even more painfully and metaphorically the second time around.

To the mothers who become grandmothers and great-grandmothers

and if time is gentle enough, live to see the children of their children

have children of their own.  To the love.

My goodness to the love that never stops and comes from somewhere

only mothers have seen and know the secret location of.

To the love that grows stronger as their hands grow weaker

and the spread of jam becomes slower and the Easter eggs get easier

to find and sack lunches no longer need making.

This is to the way the tears look falling from the smile lines

around their eyes and the mascara that just might always be

smeared with the remains of their pride for all they have created.

This is to the mothers.

via Tyler Knott.

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