A garden figurine of a small cottage with winding concrete stairs is in the center of the photo. The room is tiled in desert orange and there is a brick chimney to the back right. The siding is unsealed wood planks and the house sits on the trunk of a tree. The figurine sits by an white impatiens flower and other small flowers. Big trees and a household are seen in the background.
Photo by David Gonzales from Pexels

When I was nearing the end

of my twenties,

I had burned up and out

of all sentiments

attempting to keep me

locked up in my house

like an island of domestic labor

surrounded by decaying toxic behaviors and beliefs.

I was more than a mother and it was time the world recognized!

Like any twenty-something I romanticized and fantasized all the things I had yet to do and I was going to do them with my three kids.

And like any twenty-something I had so much learning to do — the subsequent pain, challenges, adversity, and growth were waiting on my new doorstep ready to pounce and pummel.

If you look back at my thirties, mapped them out in graphic illustration, they would look like busted up concrete with flora, fauna, and plant life growing in the diagonal seams but also dead roots. A patchwork-ed concrete quilt of dead ends and new beginnings.

When I was nearing the end

of my thirties,

I had made strides —

no longer confined to a house

but flourishing

from a home.

Where I was given reign

to labor inside and outside

or not labor at all.



Queer Writer & Poet | Sex and Sensuality | Health and Wellness Interests | Personal Experience | LINKTR.EE/TOLBERTMBB | Instagram @tolbert_on_medium

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