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The Weight of the Towel

The kitchen air was biting, sharp and thin, A place too cold for weary bones to stay. I saw the toll it took upon her skin, And sought to brush the heavy tasks away.

"Leave it for now," I’d say, "just rest a while," Not knowing then the cost of quiet ease. She traded in her apron and her smile, And let the water settle, and the freeze.

I thought I brought her comfort, gave her peace, By lifting off the burden of the chore; But when the small, familiar movements cease, The silence grows behind the kitchen door.

Now I look back and wonder—if the heat Had filled the room, if I had led the way, Would she still find the strength to stand and greet The silver moon and fight another day?

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