by Ashley M. Jones
I want to tell you a story about love. About peace.
Some days, long before today, I would wake
to hear the wind rustling my parents’ voices
as they sipped coffee and settled into the morning
of their love.
I could hear the redbirds draw close
to carefully puncture the air with their calls.
The soft movement of houseclothes
against the metal patio chairs.
The intake of coffee like a suction—
the pause as they let it steam down their throats.
The sun stretching against the backyard plants.
Days like these, all I did was stand and wait.
I’d listen. What could I learn there in the stillness?
What meditation in making my breath
shallow so my parents could not hear it,
so their seclusion remained intact,
so I could hear them exist without my imposition,
without the day begging for attention,
its constant wail of need.
In that stillness, that listening, I understood
how precious, how delicate it is to be alive,
to carry air and a heartbeat. To relax against your bones.
I could ease into that tranquility
and find light there. I could find a place
for my soul to rest and be at peace.
These days, I cling to that memory,
the truth of that gentle moment
and its harmony. These days, I hold that feeling
against the wound my living makes —
against the sharp, swift scythe of loved ones lost,
of politics making fiction into fact,
against the rattle of danger
exploding from an angry barrel,
aimed at my head, my heart.
When the darkness comes I can close my eyes
and go right back to the morning whispers
over coffee, the sunrise meeting my parents
and the dance of steam from those mugs.
The peace there.
The way that moment is sealed inside me.
The way it protects me still,
coating me in my worthiness,
bathing me in their love.
Reprinted from Lullaby For The Grieving, by Ashley M. Jones, copyright 2025. Used with permission of the publisher, Hub City Press. All rights reserved.
Photo by Jennifer Alsabrook-Turner
