I count your recovery in days. In weeks. In months.
It’s in how long you sleep
in every task you no longer need my help with
and how often you cry.
It’s in the days where there is no pain.
Those days are few but growing
Today has been a good day.
But I cannot rest
until the day is over and you’re asleep.
Only then can I cross today off the calender,
make a new mark under the tally of good days,
and sleep an uneasy sleep until you call for me again
starting a bad day
full of pain I can’t ease.
Today has been a good day so far.
And yesterday was almost good.
I try to focus on that
and remember the taste of your satisfaction.
I am almost certain there are more good days now.
Tonight I’ll dream of days without even the memory of pain
or of struggle and frustration and weakness.
I’ll dream of days when you’ll be well again
And when I’ll be unafraid of the morning.