family

Morning breaks, a pale light
seeping through the cracks,
winter’s chill lingering in the air.
Children rise from their beds,
blankets clutched tight,
their breath visible in the cold room.
They shuffle to the kitchen,
eyes still heavy with sleep,
seeking warmth and comfort.

Mother, up for an hour,
her hands busy with dough,
the scent of fresh bread mingling
with the smoky tang of the open fire.
Her face, etched with lines of worry,
softens as she watches her children,
a fleeting smile touching her lips.

Father, weary from the night shift,
his clothes marked with coal dust,
enters the room with a sigh.
His shoulders, stooped and tired,
carry the weight of endless toil,
his eyes, dark and hollow,
reflecting the struggle of their days.

The children, sensing his presence,
rush to him with cries of joy,
their small hands reaching out,
their laughter a brief respite
from the harshness of their world.
He kneels, gathering them close,
their faces pressed to his chest,
his heart heavy with love and fatigue.

Mother, watching this scene,
feels a warmth spread through her,
a quiet resolve.
She moves to the table,
setting down the bread,
her movements deliberate,
each gesture a testament to her care.

The family gathers,
a circle of love and endurance,
each member a vital thread
in the tapestry of their lives.
They share the morning,
their voices mingling,
a symphony of survival.

In this moment,
they are whole,
each one a reflection
of the others,
their bonds unspoken
but deeply felt,
a testament to the strength
of family.