Nicole Johnson

Late morning light

pours itself across the bed,

honeyed and lazy,

like it knows this is

the safest place it’s touched today.

It stretches itself thin just to stay a little longer.

It rests on your shoulders,

broad and sun-dappled,

rising and falling

with the rhythym of your breath,

even and unhurried, like the tide when no one’s watching.

In this light,

you’re all quiet joy:

laugh lines softened,

lashes fluttering in your half-sleep

as our son presses his cheek against your chest,

breathing like he knows he belongs there.

You are the hush

that comes before the sound,

the warmth before the word “love”

learns how to speak.

You are stillness with a center.

I’ve seen you curled around our son

like parentheses,

holding space

for breath, for baby dreamsm

for all the soft things

you were never taught to cradle

but somehow knew how to carry.

Like muscle memory passed down in silence.

Your love

does not shout.

It moves like a tide,

rises like bread,

grows like ivy,

slow, strong,

certain.

It’s the kind that stays even when you’re not looking.

You carry cartoons in one arm

and existential dread in the other.

And still kiss cheeks

like they’re made of stardust

and swear you’re not tired.

(But I see the weight you don’t name.)

I know the fire in you,

the one that forged this family.

You burn without breaking.

You bend without buckling.

You give without counting.

and everyday,

something grows quietly because of you.

You are the map,

the mountain,

the morning after a hard night.

You are the steady voice in the next room

saying, “I’m here.”

And when they ask

what love looks like from the inside,

I think of how our son

sinks into your shoulder like it’s home.