Sometimes I carry more than one kind of worry. Some are mine. Some are not.
They slip in when the house is quiet and dark. When the day is over and the mind open but no longer fully in control.
As a mother, I fear what I cannot protect.
As a psychologist, I fear what I cannot reach.
The dreams come anyway. Sometimes sharp, sometimes shapeless.
But by morning, most of them have faded. Only a few stay behind.
Left on the pillow, like a trace of what I try to hold.
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