At the massage
I tear up as her hands touch me.
I hear myself say that I feel like a shell,
like my son has molted me,
that each day of motherhood
is like being hit by a truck.
She didn’t expect me to say this.
We navigate the silence-
her with hands,
me with my eyes closed.
There it is she says
tracing the muscle between
shoulder blade and spine.
We both know the it to be the pain
The price to pay.