The kind that can't muster a lie of good when asked how I'm doing
but can't find the energy to explain that I'm wrapped in a constant state of healing.
The kind that can't hide what I'm really thinking about when asked about the recovery.
The kind that showers but doesn't bother with hair or make up.
I am kind of tired that falls open arms into the strong embrace of a husband
the honest inquiry of a beautiful friend during a morning play date
the warm, unexpected hug of a neighbor dropping by tick pick up tangerines,
the offer of help from caring hands I've barely before grasped
the comfort of honesty sprawled out in a email penned by a soul sister who shares her struggles.
I am the kind of tired that laughs at silly jokes of a giggly four year old that I might have missed were I not sunken into the couch
the kind that melts into the space between two little bodies in the early morning instead of hopping out of bed
the kind that falls to her knees and chokes out honest, raw, emotion-drenched prayer, lit by the glow of a Christmas tree, beneath shimmering ornaments.
The kind of tired that forces me to allow myself
to be carried
instead of moving myself forward
and finds
that, oh.
Oh my.
Your yoke really is light; it's mine that's been heavy all this way.
